Friend Number Three
by riptey
Summary: COMPLETE - How do you deal with the Pureblood aristocracy, Ministry corruption, Muggle culture invasions, and constant questions about your love life while juggling more than two friends and not being a total jerk? Don't ask Draco: he doesn't know. D/Hr
1. Offspring

Friend Number Three

by riptey

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or any related characters or ideas.

**Summary:** How do you deal with the pure-blood aristocracy, a corrupt Ministry, Muggle culture invasions, Doing the Right Thing, and constant questions about your love life - all while juggling more than two friends and not being a total jerk? Don't ask Draco: he doesn't know.

**A/N:** It's a Draco-centric, romantic-comedy epic. It's light and fun and even silly from time to time (except the serious parts!), so don't go in expecting something dark and scary like my other stories. However, if you ever wanted to know what a grown-up Draco's opinion might be on, say, everything from Joan Jett to cookie dough ice cream - this is the story for you.

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**Chapter One: Offspring**

Draco Malfoy was a lonely guy, and nobody cared. In fact, he'd been so lonely for so long that his heart had shrunk and hardened into a little, brittle, black and pointy rock. He didn't have anything better to do, so he made a mental list of all the friends he had in the world, and it didn't take very long. There were only two people on it: Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. It had been almost nine years since the end of the War, and it seemed that everyone had adjusted and gotten over the past except Draco. He annotated his friend list with a few details, because he had some spare time.

Pansy wasn't married, either, and she'd had enough money to retire at the age of eighteen without ever having a job. After a few years of failed relationships, she'd decided there wasn't any reason to get married and have babies. Unlike Draco, she seemed to thrive on her own, relentlessly pursuing her latest creative or magical whim for several months until she moved onto her next passion. She told him that she didn't like feeling trapped or caring about someone else's feelings as much as her own. Pansy wasn't a very nice person, but at least she understood her selfishness: she just wanted to be free to think she was the greatest and do whatever she wanted all the time, and Draco found it oddly respectable.

Blaise was married to Daphne Greengrass, whoever that was. Oh, right - she was in Draco's year at Hogwarts. Anyway, Blaise and Daphne had a daughter five years ago, Amarantha, and they'd thrown many fancy parties at their mansion. At one such party four years ago, Draco had laid eyes on Daphne's little sister, Astoria. The Greengrass girls had a lot going for them, some of which begins with "t" and "a." They were also well-mannered and rich, and when Draco caught the little blonde watching him conspicuously from across the room, his budding loneliness had pricked at the inside of his chest. He'd asked her out, and so had begun his last relationship, which had lasted two years.

Now, Draco wasn't lonely because people judged him for his past or because he was shy and misunderstood or something. It was because he was unpleasant. In addition to telling cruel jokes that only Blaise and Pansy thought were funny, he was also brutally honest. For example, if someone hypothetically had unmanageable frizzy hair and big sticky-out beaver teeth, he would be inclined to let them know, so they could fix the problem and quit bringing down the worldwide attractiveness average. There had hardly been anything to criticize about Astoria's appearance, but the same couldn't really be said for her mind. She was only average in the brains department and a bit shallow, and she didn't like to read books, and he'd never hesitated to remind her of these facts. At one party, Draco made a joke right in front of her about how it was safe for Astoria to drink because she didn't have any brain cells to kill off. When Pansy pointed out his girlfriend's presence, Draco assured her that Astoria wouldn't get the joke anyway. She broke up with him right then and there, in front of everyone, which would've been embarrassing if anybody remembered it a week later.

There's a rather interesting story behind that. When Voldemort was on his way back during his daughter Daphne's first year at Hogwarts, old What's-his-name Greengrass decided that this time he was unwilling to part with a single Galleon. He'd learned during the First War that it was forgivable for a high-society, pure-blood male to refuse the Mark, but such a wizard was expected to prove his loyalty with a series of donations. After all, someone had to finance the Ministry bribes and provide the fairy wine and caviar for the Death Eater cocktail parties.

The avaricious Mr. Greengrass had been using Forgetfulness Potions on his business associates for some time in order to make them forget he hadn't paid them. It was during one such business deal that he came up with his clever idea: he would modify the recipe to create a Forgetability Potion, which he would then administer to himself and his family. In theory, it would make the Greengrass family only seem relevant when they were physically present; otherwise, everyone would basically forget they existed.

Unfortunately, overestimating one's talent in Potions has been a common folly among Slytherins since Salazar's time, because the traditionally Slytherin craft has always been taught with significant House bias in terms of marks. Greengrass committed this error when he completed his Forgetability Potion - he made it much too strong. According to Astoria, her father would wake up most mornings unable to recall his own name, and nobody else could remember it long enough to tell him.

Astoria had taken a smaller dose of the potion, and this was a constant source of annoyance for Draco when they were an item. Some of Draco's acquaintances had been convinced that he'd made her up, even after meeting her several times.

_It was doomed from the start_, Draco thought at the time. _Who wants a girlfriend you can't brag about?_

Of course, it wasn't entirely Draco's fault that he was so unpleasant. That's how he was raised - if he wasn't smart or talented enough, his father would tell him so. If he didn't look as attractive as possible, his mother would break the news. That's how Draco Malfoy became the clever, well-dressed, lonely arsehole that he was today.

He was feeling lonelier than ever on this particular day. Blaise had just Floo-called him to say that if he made Amarantha cry one more time, even by accident, he would not be allowed to see her anymore. Pansy had left that morning for a two-week trip to Colombia to learn how they made coffee. He didn't have any other friends, and to top it all off he'd stumbled upon a photo he'd taken of Astoria at the bottom of his dresser drawer.

In the photo, she first smiled at the camera and then scowled and looked away, eyes on the floor. Draco remembered that day, just a week before she dumped him. He'd told her to look pretty for the picture because that was the only thing she was good at. He stared at the photo for a long time, studying her defeated posture and the pain in her eyes, and he began to wonder about some things. Did he really have to be so mean all the time? Did it really make him feel better about himself? Did other people appreciate some good, hard honesty as much as he did? No, Draco thought. No, no, no.

He thought hard, thought back to the all the nice things he'd ever said and done, and he realised that most of them were only "nice" by his own warped standards. For example, he remembered the time he ate the rest of Amarantha's ice cream while nobody was looking so she wouldn't get chubby. He remembered the time he accidentally-on-purpose spilled a full goblet of wine on Pansy's ugly new dress robes, so she'd have to change into something nicer before the other party guests arrived. He even remembered all the way back to the time he made an obscene crack about Hermione Granger's knickers in the process of warning her that Death Eaters were coming after her. He still didn't know why he'd done that last one. In retrospect, none of those things seemed very nice at all.

Maybe it was too late to get a new personality, but he made a resolution that day: even if he still thought mean thoughts for the rest of his life, he would try to say less than half of them out loud. Less than one-third, even. Maybe someday even hardly any. Instead of just never speaking again, he resolved to come up with better things to say. He decided he'd test it out first on Blaise and Pansy, and then he'd go out into the world and try it on everyone he met until he managed to make a third friend. First things first, he called Blaise back.

He was relieved to note that Blaise was alone in his living room, but he was already off to a poor start. He hadn't said a word yet, and Blaise was already rolling his eyes so hard Draco was afraid he'd pull a muscle.

"Look, mate," Blaise said, "I wish I didn't have to be so hard on you, but I just can't make excuses for you anymore."

"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." He thought for a moment, trying to come up with something about which he could compliment Blaise. "I see where you're coming from with Amarantha… you're not a bad dad, you know."

Blaise's jaw dropped open and hung there briefly. "What did you say?"

"You heard it the first time."

"No, I'm certain I heard wrong," Blaise challenged.

"I don't need you to make this any harder than it already is." Draco had meant to cut himself off there, but once he'd started talking, he didn't want to stop anymore. Years of confusion and carefully-disguised self-doubt gurgled up into the back of his throat, and he felt word vomit coming on for the first time ever. After a lifetime of being unable to understand why other people couldn't just shut up and keep their feelings to themselves, he was surprised to note that the words in his mouth were almost as difficult to hold in as actual vomit. He gave up and let them fall out. "I wanted to try something out on you because you're one of my friends - my _two friends_. Do you realise I've only got two of you? And one is gone, and you're upset with me! And of course, you realise that - I know you both pity me. Poor, pathetic Draco, doesn't know what to do now that mummy and daddy can't buy him friends anymore. But no, not poor Draco, because I'm such a prick that you can't even feel sorry for me. I can't even stand talking to myself anymore. I've decided to stop being so horrible to everyone."

He'd never before said so many true things in a row while sober. There was an awkward moment before either of them spoke, and Blaise used the time to work out the perfect facial expression. He went from shocked to derisive before looking as though he were about to show Draco some real vomit, and then he finally settled for the combination platter.

"Oh, hell, Malfoy. Did you deliberately wait until Pansy was gone before starting this ridiculous quest? You know I've gone soft since Amarantha was born, and I just can't beat some sense into you like she could, but I'll try. Yes, we do think you're pathetic, and we're sick of having to keep you company all the time so you don't up and kill yourself one day. But if it makes you feel better, Pansy's a giant bitch. I think she might be worse than you, only she doesn't care if anybody likes her. Point being, we still like you, even though you're a prick. We are officially the only two people in the entire world who think you're funny and have thick enough skin to take your barbs. So, in other words, this was the worst possible place to start. "

As harsh as that was, Draco reckoned that the man was right, especially about Pansy: hearing it from her would've been way worse. Her tongue was _literally made of needles_. All right, Draco was exaggerating. Her tongue was figuratively made of needles.

"But if you're serious about this, then I'll take you seriously. I know you think it will be easier to make yourself feel better if you don't leave your comfort zone, but it would work better for you to try this thing with strangers. They don't know you've been an arsehole for twenty-six years running. But first, you'll have to leave your house."

Draco thought about that. He didn't work, and he didn't have anywhere to go except his friends' homes. He rarely dined out or even went shopping - he had house-elves to take care of errands. Glancing down at the practically iridescent skin of his hands, he realised he hadn't actually been outdoors in an embarrassingly long time. He'd been honest enough for one day, though, so he kept his mouth shut and waited for Blaise to continue.

"You won't be able to do this alone, either. You've got to find somebody who's already a good person to give you pointers, or you'll never get it right, and we don't know anybody like that. I had Daphne to help me, but she hates your guts. So, I'm going to help you the only way I know how: pressure and ultimatums that will also benefit me." He paused for dramatic effect. "If you have me to hang onto, you won't have enough motivation. Therefore, I refuse to see you until you have come up with a third friend who actually likes you," he concluded with a charming grin.

"That's not helpful! That is the opposite of helping me!" Draco whined, pathetically. "I've just come to this essential realization, and your big answer is to ditch me? What kind of friend are you? I'll have to go looking for a second friend first, because clearly I only have one!"

"I'm a bad friend, just like you, and I could use some time off from Malfoy babysitting duty. Hell, I'll even throw you one more - you could get a job."

If this was the kind of friendly advice that nice people received, Draco didn't want to be one anymore. He curled his lip in distaste.

"See?" Blaise continued, undeterred. "That's exactly why people hate you so much. Do you realise everybody else except us has to work, even if they don't want to?"

Draco did know that, but he didn't like to think about it. "How about I just realise that and stop making fun of people for working?"

Blaise snorted. "No," he said. "Now that I've thought of it, maybe I'll add that, too. I won't see you until you make another friend _and_ you get a job. Oh, and don't call your dad for help, either! No, you should get the worst crap job you can find. There's a little coffee shop I visit sometimes in Diagon Alley - the Raven. As of yesterday, they're hiring." He laughed out loud at the idea of Draco Malfoy in an apron, serving coffee with a scowl and spoiling everyone's morning.

"But that's all the hot tips I've got for you today," he continued. "Daphne's going to be home from the shops any minute now, and I don't want her to see your face and get herself into a bad mood the second she walks in the door."

"Oh, come on. Can't I stay a couple minutes and say hello? I can be nice, I promise," he said. This was to be his last friendly communication for at least two weeks, when Pansy returned, so that's why he was stalling.

"Really, Malfoy? What would you two talk about, the weather? I doubt you even know what season it is. Maybe you could talk about Astoria, to remind Daphne of the reason she'll probably never forgive you. Oh, I know - you could talk about my daughter, who you also treat like crap. You know what? Come in for dinner, because this sounds_ awful _pleasant."

"I don't treat Amarantha like crap."

"Didn't we just get through talking about this a few hours ago? You tell her terrifying lies until she can't sleep at night, you tell her she's dim, and at five years old you're already trying to give her a prepubescent eating disorder." At Draco's guilty look, he added: "You think I haven't seen you nicking sweets from her plate? You'd better cut that right out before Daphne catches you. She'd hate you even more, if that were possible."

"All right, point taken. I'm a miserable bastard and I haven't got a hope of fixing the damage I've caused. Guess I'll just off myself and get it over with," he said.

At the tragic look on Draco's face, Blaise relented.

"Fine. If you're so determined to become a nice person, then I'll treat you like one for a moment. I'm a father, so I can say things like this: if you can manage to get a job and make a friend, I think I can find it in my heart to be proud of you. Has anybody been proud of you before?"

"No," he said, without having to think about it.

"Well, it feels nice. Now, get out of here before the girls come home and get their day ruined."


	2. Metal Man

**Chapter Two: Metal Man**

Draco felt even worse after talking to Blaise. In fact, he decided that he technically had only 1.5 friends. In the interest of practicality, though, he was willing to round up – three was his grand goal for right now, and he reckoned it would be complicated to make one-and-a-half new friends.

He remained on his knees and stared into the fire. It had always fascinated him how closely fire resembled water, with the tendrils of flame washing the logs and then dripping upwards. Yes, _fascinating_. This was what Draco's life had come to: sitting alone by the fire in his empty house, congratulating himself on the metaphorical depth of his inner monologue, and feeling sorry for himself on tile floor.

He switched to pouting momentarily, then went back to brooding. He thought about reading a book, but he wasn't quite through brooding just yet.

He finished, feeling satisfied about a job well done, but then he realised he hadn't actually done anything at all. It was seven o'clock at night, and his day had consisted of getting yelled at, brooding, getting yelled at, and brooding. Even for Draco's standards of productivity, this was sub-par. Especially after Blaise had called him out on his hermit-esque lifestyle, he was acutely aware of how trapped he'd started to feel in the manor.

His parents were at their summer home in Monaco and wouldn't be returning to Britain until the end of August. At this time, Lucius would resume his job(?) at wherever Lucius worked, and Narcissa would resume her position as a social butterfly, improving the Malfoy image by inviting reporters to the manor and throwing charity benefits. Draco wasn't sure what his father did, but he was gone every day during normal business hours and was tired when he returned home, so it was probably something that could at least loosely be termed "work."

He never came home with blood or any other bodily fluids on his person, so he either made sure to wash himself off or didn't kill people most days, and that was enough for Draco. The bank account remained overflowing, and he didn't feel any pressing need to ask questions. In fact, he didn't like to bother questioning much of anything in his life or the world around him. He hardly ever read the news, and he didn't care about politics, and whatever his father did was probably none of his business, anyway.

Whether he considered the job issue or not, Draco decided it would be fun to walk around Diagon Alley. He gathered some Floo powder from a pouch by the fireplace and threw it in, calling out his destination.

He emerged in the Leaky Cauldron, brushed some soot off his cloak, and almost dove under a table when he looked behind the counter. There stood a woman he recognized from Hogwarts, a blonde Hufflepuff, and he was pretty sure she wouldn't be happy to see him. They'd never spoken, but anybody who wasn't in Slytherin tended to remember Draco unfavourably, and also most of the Slytherins. To recap, almost everyone was usually unhappy to see Draco.

He avoided eye contact, but he was sure he could feel her disdainful gaze as he made his way outside.

As he exited a building for the first time in weeks, even the half-hearted evening sun was enough to make him squint. The great outdoors was not one of his passions, and all the sun did was burn him and get in his eyes, so Draco preferred to stay inside whenever possible. He didn't need such a heavy cloak, but having one on allowed him to pull up his hood and hide his trademark hair. Unfortunately, this made him look dodgy, so the people who did still recognize him as the Malfoy brat were probably even more convinced that he was up to no good.

They'd see soon enough - he was in the process of changing his image. Maybe someday, he thought dreamily, people would see him on the streets with his hood down and point him out to their children. "Hi, Draco," they'd call, "how are the kids at the orphanage?" He'd just give them a humble smile, almost embarrassed, as though he didn't want so much attention just for doing good things.

That was supremely unlikely on all counts, especially the humble smile; however, maybe someday people would walk past him without pointedly averting their eyes, like they were afraid being a prat was a contagious disease that they might catch just from looking directly at him. As he continued on his way, he noted with pleasure that most people seemed to neither know nor care who he was. Perhaps it had been longer than he'd estimated since he'd walked this street.

Draco hadn't done anything bad in eight years, or really anything at all, and for once his father wasn't being formally accused of any crimes. He almost had a clean slate, and this time he was determined not to screw it up. He hadn't been paying much attention to his surroundings as he walked, heading nowhere in particular, but a familiar sight caught his eye - Flourish & Blotts.

When he was a boy, books had helped him escape from the strange happenings that used to occur in his home at all hours of the day and night - the whispered conversations, for example, and the creepy visits from his father's colleagues. It was a win-win situation for him to hole up in the library, seeing as his father didn't mind telling visitors that Draco was busy reading. He believed that this highlighted his son's intelligence, which pleased him, and it also meant that Draco never had to make small talk with crazy uncle Rodolphus. The Malfoy library was extremely large, and Lucius hardly ever ventured into the fiction section favoured by Draco, so that explained some of his more unexpected discoveries. Draco would never have admitted it, but one of his favorite books as a child had actually been about a Muggle: _Gary Conner and the Regular Rock_. It was written by a pure-blood witch, but it took place in Muggle London. He reckoned it had probably been a gift during his childhood, and there was nothing on the cover to imply that it was about a Muggle, so it had slipped onto the shelves undetected and been left to rot.

The book told the story of Gary Conner, an eleven-year-old boy, and his discovery of an ordinary rock in his aunt's flowerbed. Gary had thrown the rock at his neighbor's house, breaking a window, and he'd spent the rest of the year trying to avoid getting caught. This was how Draco had learned everything he knew about the Muggle world, which wasn't much, and he doubted the accuracy of most of it considering the author's heritage. For example, the characters heated their homes by rubbing two sticks together until they created fire, and even Draco knew that couldn't possibly be the case in real life. All of the characters were absurdly thick and bungling, in fitting with the magical community's stereotypes of what Muggles were like, and there was a group of nasty children at Gary's school who had no redeeming qualities. The author seemed to disparage them at every opportunity, and Draco wondered why the author even bothered making up those characters just to insult them.

He wondered what it would be like if someone wrote a different version, from the perspective of the nastiest boy, just so he could see if the boy was really as awful as he'd seemed from Gary's point of view. But who would take the time to do that?

Draco strolled around the store, lost in thought as he looked for fresh titles from his favourite authors. There was nothing in the new releases section from anyone he'd heard of, and he was beginning to feel hot and thirsty. Impulsively, he made his way to the counter and waited for the clerk's attention.

"Have you heard of a coffee shop called the Raven?" he asked. Phrases such as "excuse me," "please," and "if you don't mind" weren't a major part of Draco's vocabulary.

"Yes, did you need directions?" she asked, and he nodded. "It's just down the street - you know where Fortescue's used to be?" He gave another nod. The woman had handled his curtness quite well until this point, but it appeared that his silence was beginning to unnerve her. "Er, the Raven is there now," she finished. She began to inspect her nails, glancing up at Draco after a few seconds to see if he was going to ask her any more questions, and it seemed like a good place to start his quest.

"Have a good evening," he said. He wasn't very good at this kind of social nicety yet, so it came out more like a command - like he was going to check back in later to make sure she was doing it. She broke into a polite smile anyway.

"You do the same, sir," she said. He turned to leave, confused by his reaction – he felt almost giddy.

It was this woman's job to wish him a pleasant evening, he thought. She didn't actually care one way or the other. In Draco's experience, people could only ever care so much about other people's happiness before they reached a limit, and when the chips were down they'd always go back to worrying about themselves. On the other hand, it was also true in Draco's experience that it was impolite to torture someone in the drawing room, because that sort of activity was only appropriate in the cellar. It had been brought to his attention in the past that his worldview was a tad limited.

He remembered Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour contritely. As a child, he'd wanted desperately to go in and enjoy a sundae. Every time he walked past the place with his parents, he'd eye the patrons outside with extreme envy, but he'd only asked for ice cream there once, when he was eight. His father's reproachful look had been enough to stop his request mid-sentence, and his mother had told him that it was too fattening with an apologetic smile. He later became aware that the actual reason for his parents' refusal was that the Malfoy family would not have been welcome in that particular establishment. Fortescue had been an enemy of his father's since the first war, and Draco knew what had become of him in the second one. It made him very uncomfortable to think about it, and he wished he could've gone inside just once, to see Florean Fortescue smile at him and find out if the ice cream was as delicious as it looked.

When he reached the parlour's former location, he was relieved to note that it was almost unrecognizable. Even the exterior had been painted and refinished, and the inside had been redone. An iron sign that read "The Raven" hovered above the door, kept aloft by miniature black wings on either side. A smaller sign was tacked onto the bottom that read "Now Hiring." It was cozy inside, full of cushy armchairs and intricate rugs over hardwood floors. He didn't recognize any of the customers.

The drink selection was rather awe-inspiring, not to mention the cheerfully-lit display of homemade baked goods. There were drinks to wake you up, drinks to put you to sleep, hot drinks, cold drinks, and frozen concoctions with whipped cream on top. He'd been in tea shops before, but Draco had never seen anything like this. There was every flavour combination he could imagine and more besides. Behind the counter stood a middle-aged witch with short brown hair and purple spectacles, which were attached to a beaded cord around her neck, and her smile was effervescent.

"Hello, how are you this evening?" she asked.

"Fine," he replied frostily. No, that was wrong. He softened his tone and added, "And you?"

"I'm just lovely. You've never been here before, have you?" He shook his head. "No, I'd definitely remember that lovely hair." She chuckled. He reckoned there was no way this woman knew who he was, considering the casual manner in which she'd just complimented him. Malfoy hair wasn't "lovely," even when it was on his mother. It was generally seen as being typical Malfoy - always with the vanity. "Do you need any help deciding?"

He did, but he didn't want to admit it. The menu was scrawled on a board that stretched across the entire back wall of the shop, in random order, and he was having trouble reading the handwriting. He looked at the woman pointedly, hoping this would communicate his need for assistance. It worked.

"Well, it's clear that you're the sort of man who doesn't need any help figuring out what he wants," she said. "We have another customer like that who comes in here often, and she always orders an iced vanilla latte."

"I'll have that," he said. It sounded good.

"Ok, do you want to stay awake or go to sleep?"

Draco considered this. It was Wednesday night, and he didn't have anything to do later, so he should sleep. He also didn't have anything to do tomorrow, so he should sleep for two weeks and owl Pansy the second she got home, but that would be desperate. "Go to sleep," he concluded.

The woman nodded and quoted him the price, eight Sickles. He handed her the coins, but apparently she wasn't done talking to him. "Aren't you hot in that big, heavy cloak?" He nodded. "You don't say much, do you?"

He shook his head. In his Hogwarts days he'd run his mouth constantly, always boasting to his Housemates or throwing out a nasty remark to another student in the hallway. Now that he was older, he rarely spoke to anyone except his two (2) friends and family. It was especially difficult to have a conversation with a stranger like this, now that he was aware of the damage his words had done in the past.

She moved to another area behind the counter, where she poured different ingredients from vials and bottles into a glass and stirred them with her wand, which emitted a strange sound as it frothed them together. They expanded in the container, and soon it was full of beige liquid. She caught his curious expression and began to speak again.

"Isn't it great? My father came over from Italy, and he knows a few secrets about perfect espresso. It's actually a Muggle invention, but there's a magical way to make these drinks that works just as well."

"Espresso?" he asked. He hated to admit ignorance, but it wasn't exactly embarrassing not to be an expert on Muggle drinks.

"Yes, it's a really strong kind of coffee that you can either drink in small amounts or mix with milk and other flavours." She handed Draco the glass. He made to walk away, but she stopped him. "Now, you can't go anywhere until you taste it and tell me how much you like it."

He took a small sip, and his eyes went wide. It tasted rich and sweet and creamy, like nothing he'd ever tried before. He noticed she was still waiting, and he decided it was actually rather easy to be nice to this woman, mostly because she was so persistent. "It's quite good," he said.

"I know," she replied, lifting her head in pride. "So, you'll be coming back, won't you?"

"Yes," Draco said. In fact, he didn't want to go home at all. He took a few more sips of the drink, and his whole body relaxed. He was in a comfortable little lounge with a friendly woman who had no idea who he was or what his family had done. Maybe it was because he felt so at ease, so reluctant to leave, that he said something else. "Are you still hiring?"

She gave Draco a wide smile and raised her eyebrows in surprise. "We most certainly are. Do you know someone who'd like to work here?"

"Me. I do."

She eyed his cloak and expensive robes, looking puzzled. It was obvious to anyone who cared to look that Draco Malfoy was filthy rich. "Are you sure? It's a bit messy, and it can get a bit hectic in the mornings."

"Yes."

"Well, all right, then. Why don't you come back around this time tomorrow and we'll try a few things out, see if you're right for it?"

"I will," Draco said. "Good evening," he added sternly, regressing a bit, but her smile only widened. Strange.

"Good evening," she replied, much more kindly. "By the way, I'm Magdalena de Simone, but you can call me Maggie," she said, stretching her hand across the counter. Draco hesitated, and he wildly considered telling her a fake name for a second. He decided that she would find out eventually, though, and lying would make things worse in the long run.

"Draco Malfoy," he said, taking her hand. The older woman had a firm handshake, he noted.

"I know," she said, still smiling.


	3. The Real World

**Chapter Three: The Real World**

Draco had high hopes for his first day of work, but unfortunately it was an unmitigated disaster.

He'd woken up late that morning and felt jittery as soon as he remembered what day it was: his first day of work ever, at the age of twenty-six.

There was no time for self-pity, which was a nice change from the oodles of free time that Draco was used to setting aside specifically for that purpose. He was about to join the unwashed masses in the real world, a place where everyone else had already resided for years (except Pansy, but Draco had no desire to visit Pansyland for any extended period of time).

It was already ten o'clock, which meant that Draco only had about nine hours to finish all of the things he had to do, which is to say not a bloody thing. There was nobody to talk to and nothing to do.

He bathed, dressed, and paced around his living room. 11:00. He ate some brunch and resumed pacing. Noon. He checked the mail; there was none. 12:10. He ranted out loud to himself about what a terrible friend Blaise was. A distant ancestor in the painting above the fireplace heard his rambling and encouraged Draco to kill Blaise, providing detailed suggestions on how he might do so. Draco considered it and decided that he wouldn't kill Blaise, even if he could be certain that he was not going to get caught. He could guess that was part of being a good person.

At last he managed to occupy himself by manually tidying his bedroom, the one room of the manor which house-elves had always been forbidden from cleaning. He'd gotten used to keeping his room in order, but lately he'd let himself go a bit, sleeping all day and just throwing books anywhere on the floor when he was through reading them. This flight from the nest was a long time coming.

A thought occurred to him then: maybe if he liked being a grown-up, he could even _move out of the manor._

To be fair, it was customary for pure-blood witches and wizards to live with their parents until they were wed, and Draco's parents had basically resigned themselves to the fact that they weren't getting rid of him anytime soon. This was the first time he'd realised that he could choose to leave, all by himself. The manor was intimidating and gaudy and full of stuffy history, and as long as he still lived there he'd be stuck in the past. Also, he occasionally had to pass his father in the halls, which was uncomfortable. There wasn't a whole lot of communication in the Malfoy family.

He glanced at the clock and saw that it was, to his relief, already five o'clock. He decided that Maggie wouldn't mind if he showed up early, so he ate as much dinner as he could force into his anxious stomach and took the Floo to Diagon Alley. He imagined all the things that could go wrong, and there were a lot.

He arrived to find the place just as calm and quiet as it had been the evening before, but Maggie wasn't behind the counter. There was a taller woman in her place who appeared to be a few years older than Draco. He approached with caution, walking slowly as he kept eye contact with the unfamiliar woman. It was awkward.

When he stepped up to the counter, she greeted him with a smile and said: "Hi, how are you?"

"Fine," he said. It didn't occur to him until later that it would've been polite to ask how she was doing.

"Do you know what you want to drink today, or would you like to hear our specials?"

"No," he said. "The other woman told me to come back today. She said her name was Magdalena. Who are you?"

"Oh, you're the one who wants to work here. I'm Bianca – Maggie's my mum," she said, eying Draco warily. He knew he'd been cold to her already, but being nice was harder than it looked. "She'll be here in a few minutes. You can sit down."

Great, Draco hadn't even begun his trial shift and his first coworker already disliked him. He was off to a roaring start. He chose a chair near the back of the shop and waited for Maggie to arrive; Bianca hopped onto the counter, crossed her legs, and pulled out a book. Draco thought she had nice legs. It had been several months since he'd so much as kissed a woman, and he found himself staring.

His sex life wasn't as exciting as he wished it was, mainly because sex for the single man required leaving one's house and meeting new people. He managed to take women home every so often for a night of mutual understanding, but it had been a while. Bianca caught him and turned her body away with a dirty look. He was about to just give up and go home, but then Maggie stepped through the door, carrying several large bags. She was a decidedly rotund woman with a soft face and wide blue eyes, and somehow everything about her seemed pleasant, like she was meant to be exactly where and how she was. Everyone looked up when she walked in, and many customers called out a greeting.

Draco stood, and she hurried over when she spotted him.

"Draco, you're here! You're early! I didn't think you'd be here for another hour, so I didn't get ready just yet, but it's no problem at all," she said, beaming at him. Bianca walked around the counter and gave Draco another look, which he figured was for not offering to help an old woman with her burden. "Have you met my daughter?" Maggie asked as she handed off her parcels. "Draco, this is Bianca. Bianca, this is Draco Malfoy."

Bianca raised her eyebrows, but he couldn't discern her expression. To his surprise, her hard look seemed to soften when she heard his name, which was the opposite of what should've happened. The real world didn't make sense, and Draco wanted to go back to bed. "Nice to meet you," Bianca said. She turned and disappeared through a concealed door, into what Draco assumed was the back room of the shop.

"All right, Draco, are you ready to get started?" Maggie said, failing to notice the fervent manner in which he'd just watched Bianca walk away. "We've got a lot to learn!"

She was so enthusiastic that Draco couldn't walk away anymore if he tried. He nodded and smiled in a professional manner, keeping his lips sealed. To tell the truth, he was worried that Maggie would realise what a bad person he was if he started talking, and it would make her sad. She had somehow gotten the impression that he was a nice young man, and he didn't want to open his mouth and prove her wrong. He followed her behind the counter, where she began talking quickly and pointing to things.

"You've looked at our menu before, but it's a bit confusing on the wall there, so we've got some paper copies over here. You'll want to take one of these and memorize it as soon as you can, but no rush - you can cheat for a while -" she handed him a menu and winked - "and over here is where we keep the supplies. We've got all different sweets in these little tins here. We put those on top of the drinks, and here's the counter where we make them - I'll teach you the spells for those in a minute - they're simple - do you have any experience with cooking spells?"

Draco shook his head as she continued walking along the counter.

"No? Well, it's all right, you'll learn fast. These are the large pots where we brew Muggle coffee. Oh, don't give me that look - Muggles aren't completely useless. You'll see. And over here is the cash drawer; I'll show you how to open it and take money out in a bit – " she paused to breathe for a second, then continued just as quickly – "and this is the bakery case. My husband is brilliant baker, and he makes all the sweets in there himself every morning. I've no interest in the cooking personally, but if you want to learn how to make sweets sometime, I'm sure he'd be happy to teach you a few things. Are you ready to see the back room?"

"Er," said Draco.

"Okay, follow me!" She walked to the door and pulled it open, then continued talking as Bianca brushed past them to man the main floor. Draco tuned her out - something about the vault with the rest of the money, marking a card when he came in for work, and blah blah blah. It was boring. Finally, she finished her tour and looked at Draco expectantly. He tried nodding, which seemed to satisfy her. "I'll show you how to make the drinks next time. I was thinking we'd have you try working on the counter tonight."

He'd try if he had to, but Draco was not cut out for customer service. He'd learned that he could be relatively nice to someone like Maggie, who clearly deserved it, but what if someone was an arsehole? How was he supposed to know if a customer warranted his theoretical kindness? He'd just have to err on the side of goodness and smile at everybody, which would lead to a lot of wasted smiles and possibly extra lines around his mouth in the future. It was too late to back out now, so he followed Maggie to the main floor. She was still talking about stuff, instructing Draco to observe the way her daughter handled customers and study his copy of the menu.

Bianca was sitting on the counter with her book again, and Maggie took her position at the drink counter (or the "bar," as she called it). She pointedly informed Draco that nobody was technically allowed to sit on the counter, but Bianca just smiled at her mother and shrugged. There weren't any drink orders yet, so Draco stood around uncomfortably while the two women discussed Bianca's personal life. Apparently, she was married, which wasn't overly disappointing to Draco. He could still look.

Then, the front door opened. Time stopped. The sky darkened. Babies all over the world began to wail with an inhuman misery they couldn't fully comprehend. Hermione Granger walked in, and all was lost.

Now, most people have a fight or flight instinct that kicks in when threats are imminent, but Draco's was only half-way there. He had a keen flight instinct, and he was prepared to use it. He glanced at the door to the back room, but it was too far, and there wasn't enough room to hide under the counter. He would have to stand there, behind the counter of a coffee shop, and take notes while his rival of fifteen years ordered her drink. Worse still, Bianca seemed to be friends with her. He gritted his teeth.

"Hi, Hermione. How was work?" she asked, bouncing off the counter and putting aside her book. Hermione was searching through her bag and still hadn't looked up to survey her surroundings. _Typical Granger_, Draco thought, _always with her nose stuck in a book or something, never paying attention to reality_. That was hypocritical of him, but he didn't realise it. He also noticed that her appearance hadn't changed much since their Hogwarts days, which meant that Draco still secretly found her rather fetching. She had a whole bunch of dark hair, with bright eyes and pale skin and red lips.

"Oh, not the best. I saw Ron today, and he's _still_ being rude to me, despite his having six months to learn to at least be civil." Draco couldn't help but prick up his ears at this news. Usually Gryffindor gossip was heinously boring, with lots of scandalous hand-holding in the corridors and such, but his least-favourite Weasley getting his heart trampled by his first true lurve? That was just fun. They'd broken up approximately one million times before, according to reliable gossip sources whose names rhyme with "Ransy," but perhaps this one would last.

Hermione looked up to share a sympathetic look with Bianca, but then she noticed something behind her friend - something blond and ferrety. She gaped at him and made some kind of squeaky, high-pitched noise in the back of her throat, like her vocal chords had screeched to a halt. Which would have been just fine, in Draco's opinion.

"_What_ – are _you_ – doing _here_?" she sputtered, emphasizing every other word, with a few dramatic pauses thrown in for good measure. Bianca looked at him expectantly, as though she'd been wondering the same thing but had been too polite to ask. Draco gave both of them a haughty look.

"I work here," he said.

"It's his first day," Bianca added.

"And he hasn't taken an order yet. I bet he'd love to take yours." Maggie with the assist. Bianca appeared to be hiding some silent laughter behind her hand. _Thanks, team_, thought Draco.

Hermione just stared at the three of them, looking scandalized. "Oh, Maggie, you hired Draco Malfoy? Don't you check people's references? If I had known you were that hard up for help around here, I'm sure I could've found you someone. I mean, I could even pick up a few shifts a week myself, if I -"

"Hermione Granger, Draco is right here, and you're speaking of him as though he were a convicted felon," Maggie interrupted, in full mum-mode.

"Well, isn't he?" Hermione was gesticulating erratically, as though no one else seemed to understand how ridiculous this situation was, and waving her arms would help them see.

"No, I most certainly am not," he said, stepping forward. "In case you forgot, my family was cleared of all charges."

"Oh, yes, I'm familiar with your father's circus of a trial. Talk about political theatre! That's exactly the sort of thing I'm working to change at the Ministry. I don't know what you lot had up your sleeves, but there was definitely something more to that trial than anybody heard about, and you can't hide it forever." She was clearly raring to go, and so was Draco. It was actually a nice change to fight with someone other than Blaise and Pansy, and he reckoned it didn't really matter if he offended Hermione Granger. She was already maxed out on hating him and vice versa.

"I see, so you're allowed to break all the rules and laws that you want as long as you're on the right side. We should just name you Chief Witch of the Wizengamot and let you chuck people in Azkaban, based on whether or not they made fun of your hair in school."

Hermione's face twisted into a mocking smile. "I'm not sure what laws you think the Order broke during the War, but it sounds more like you're still sore about losing the House Cup. Maybe if you weren't the prince of the prats in a House full of snobby little entitled rich babies, you could have gotten more points."

"Would you listen to Miss Inter-House Unity talk about Slytherin! Please, fair and wise goddess of justice, tell me more stereotypical nonsense about one-fourth of the Hogwarts population." Oh, that got under her skin, he could tell. Draco still knew how to hit Hermione where it hurt - right in the moral compass.

"I still like the theory of inter-House unity. It's just that in practice, it meant tolerating _you_," she fired back.

"You know, this is all very informative for me. It turns out that both justice and tolerance are conditional, based on personal vendettas. Who knew?"

"Excuse me? You're talking to me about personal vendettas? Do you even _know_ why your family is supposed to hate the Weasleys?"

"I've never inquired as to the official reason, but it seems quite obvious to me, thank you. And just in case you were wondering, I'll still hate you just the same, even though you're not going to be a Weasley yourself." Draco knew he'd gone too far that time, but he couldn't resist reminding her that he'd heard what she said. She narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together in a tense line, signaling that the game was over.

"All right, I don't need to stand here and be insulted. In fact, I don't think I'm thirsty anymore. Maggie, I would ask you to please reconsider your hiring practices. Malfoy, I would ask you to consider jumping off a cliff. Good _day._" With a final awful look at Draco, she turned and left the shop, banging the door behind her.

And then there was absolute silence. Draco realised for the first time that it wasn't just his two coworkers watching the verbal slap-fight: almost all of the customers had looked up from their books to keep score for themselves. He was pleased to note that they seemed about evenly split - half of them nodded or smirked at him as he glanced around the room, and the rest shot him a glare.

He looked at Bianca, who was glaring at him just as fiercely as Hermione was a few moments ago. She sighed and hurried out the front door, presumably to catch the other woman before she Disapparated. He turned next to his new former boss, expecting the same treatment, but Maggie just looked sad. Compassionate, too, and that was exactly what Draco didn't need - more pity.

"Well," he began in a clipped tone, "it was kind of you to give me a chance. Good evening."

"You're quitting?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"What? No, you're firing me."

"No, I'm not."

"Why not?" Draco was most seriously confused. He'd thought he was going to the Real World today, but instead he'd ended up in the Bizarro-Dome. Maybe he'd mispronounced "Diagon Alley" when he took the Floo.

"Because I have no reason to. I'm not going to fire you because you have an unpleasant history with one of our customers. I will have you know that I'm very disappointed in the both of you, acting like a couple of smart-mouthed children out here. If you want to continue, you'll need to act much more professional in the future. Do you want to try again tomorrow?"

As far as he could remember, no one had ever been upset with him and Hermione Granger simultaneously - it had to be one or the other, depending on the person's political affiliation (except maybe McGonagall, but that didn't count because she was constantly disappointed in everybody). He thought about his options: he could either go back to wiling away the hours in his home, friendless and alone, or he could give this another go. If he was honest with himself, this train wreck of a shift had been the most fun he'd had in ages. He nodded at Maggie.

"Good, I was hoping you would. Now, why don't you go home and get some rest. Calm your nerves a bit, and come back here tomorrow at six. We'll work on making the drinks, and if you can do that, you can just stay at the bar and let us handle the customers. I'll smooth things over with Bianca."

Draco was touched. She wasn't just going to give him another chance; she was even going to go out of her way and stand up for him to her own daughter.

He set his jaw, knowing what he had to do. He looked Maggie in the eye and said, sincerely, "Thank you."

She smiled and bade him goodnight, and he went home. At least now he knew what he was up against.


	4. Tongues

**Chapter Four: Tongues**

Over the course of the next week, Draco learned how to make all of the drinks. He mastered the simple frothing, mixing, cooling, and heating spells with ease; then, he learned that with a certain amount of finesse, he could impress the customers by decorating the drinks. Maggie was beside herself with joy when she saw how he'd taught himself to float differently-shaped bubbles in the centre of each glass.

He made whatever shape struck his fancy, or whatever the customer requested. He also learned why he'd been so exhausted when he'd gotten home after his first visit to the Raven: the drinks were mixed with a few drops of Pepper-Up Potion in the morning and a mild relaxing draught in the evening, although customers could request their preference at any time.

The best part about being good at making the drinks was that Draco hardly ever had to talk to the customers. They would request their favourite bubble shapes and ask him how he was doing, and he would say "fine" or just nod. Sometimes he liked to smile at them, if they were nice. Other times they were mean, and Maggie was helping him learn to hold his tongue when someone was rude to him. For his first two days on the bar, she'd stood by to help him, which included a gentle tap on the shoulder when it looked like he wanted to go off on someone.

To Draco's surprise, even Bianca was warming up to him. He worked in the evenings with Maggie, and Bianca worked in the mornings with her father. Draco had worked with Bianca in the late afternoons a few times, though, and she appeared to have forgiven him for fighting with Hermione Granger. She obviously didn't trust him, but she made an effort to smile at him when he came in and sometimes tried to discuss current events or the weather. He also learned from Maggie that Hermione came in every morning before work and only occasionally in the afternoons, which was a relief.

It was Thursday again, and Draco could hardly conceive of the fact that he'd been so desperately unhappy a week ago. Now he had people to talk to during the day, and he had things to do and learn. He definitely wasn't friends with Bianca, and he didn't think that was likely to change, but he thought he was half-way there with Maggie. He wasn't about to ask her for drinks after work, but he'd told her some things about himself, and for some reason she still liked him.

It was a slow evening, probably because it was pouring outside and quite chilly to boot. Maggie had asked him to handle things on his own for a few hours while she went to meet a friend for dinner. Draco watched the rain through the window while he tidied up behind the counter.

A customer came in, closing a black umbrella as she walked through the door, and buggered if it wasn't Hermione Granger. She glanced behind the counter and noticed him, her expression ambiguous. He wasn't allowed to insult her, and she wasn't supposed to be here, so this probably wasn't going to go very well.

She walked to the counter with her stern face already in place. "Oh, it's _you_. Bianca told me she'd be working tonight, but I guess she was mistaken."

"I don't know why she'd tell you that, seeing as she works every morning and I work every night." Draco tried to keep his tone even and his face blank, but his body was tense. He felt like he was winding up to pounce, or maybe just preparing himself for when she did.

"It's a shame they haven't sacked you yet. I thought Maggie was a better judge of character," she said, a trace of a sarcastic smile on her face. Draco noticed that her hair was pulled back tightly today, making her look extra severe when combined with the dangerous look in her eyes.

"No, I'm still here," he said. He set his jaw and looked away. He wanted to rise to her bait, but she was probably just here to test him. Maybe Maggie had even arranged the whole thing and sent Hermione to check his progress. He studied her, and she just seemed puzzled now, her eyes narrowed like she was trying to figure something out.

"Aren't you supposed to ask me if I want a drink? If I had a good day? Come on, Malfoy, it's not like your job is hard. I know you're too dumb to do a lot of things properly, but even you could manage something as simple as this," she snapped. They stared at each other. This wasn't fair.

"Part of my job, Granger, is being polite to customers even when they are not polite to me," he said through clenched teeth. "At the moment, that part of my job is occupying all of my energy." He hoped she would get his meaning and retract her claws, but no such luck.

"Maybe if you had smiled at me when I came in, that would count as politeness, but you're being downright grouchy. What's the matter, are you out of money? Or perhaps everybody just forgot about you, and you have to work in this café so they'll be forced to talk to you?"

Draco was as confused as he was angry. This was the worst kind of torture - it was like talking to Pansy, but he couldn't fight back. Like watching all your friends play the most intense Quidditch game you've ever seen, but you've got a broken leg.

"Why are you doing this? What's _wrong_ with you? I know you didn't think Bianca was working today because she never works evenings anymore, so I don't know why you're even here! If you're trying to get me to break down and insult you so you can get me fired, it won't work," he said. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and counted to ten as Maggie had instructed him. He opened his eyes, and Hermione was still there and still angry. He decided that counting to ten only worked if the person was gone when he was done.

"Oh, how cute," she said. "You think I came in here just to see you. That would be pathetic, and I'm not the one who's pathetic here. I'm not the one who hid in my daddy's house for eight years, and I'm certainly not the one who hasn't got any friends." Draco caught her eyes in horrified surprise, and he realised she hadn't actually known that for sure - it was just a test, since the money thing hadn't gotten to him. She gave him an awful smile, and he felt his control splinter and snap. There was no more calming down. He hoped Maggie would forgive him, because there went the neighbourhood.

"Believe me, I'm as shocked as anybody that you can find someone to spend time with you, you heinous bitch! Is that why you follow Harry Potter around?" He spat out the name in disgust. "Bet he fancies himself a martyr just for listening to you talk, that self-satisfied little prick. And those half-witted Weasley brats? Well, they'll just take anybody!" He was leaning over the counter now, towering over the petite witch on the other side, but she stood her ground. He was expecting her to storm out and scuttle off to tell Maggie what he said, but instead she looked positively thrilled. There was a wild look in her eyes, and they both were breathing hard.

"You don't even know my friends, so don't you dare talk about them like that! Harry -" she hesitated - "Harry's twice the man you'll ever be!"

"Now, Granger, it seemed like you were about to add something there. Would you care to tell me what it was? A name that starts with 'R' and rhymes with 'prawn,' maybe? It's on the tip of my tongue." She sneered at him, baring her teeth. This was getting good. "Oh, wait," he added, "I get it. Weasley isn't a man anymore, because you've personally overseen his castration, you frigid harpy!"

"I don't think you're qualified to give out relationship advice. I have some friends at the _Daily Prophet_, and I can't say I was surprised when they told me you haven't had a girlfriend for six years."

Draco groaned in frustration. The _Prophet_'s gossip column had run a few lines about his breakup with Astoria, but clearly Hermione didn't remember it, and she wouldn't believe him if he told her now.

"Even if that were true, no girlfriend would still be better than that tragic charade you were calling a relationship! You attached yourself to the laughingstock of the wizarding world, the biggest failure to come out of your jolly little band of fools, for years. How's it working out for you, realising you wasted all that time?"

"I haven't wasted any time, unlike you. I've invented six new spells and ten potions, and I'm a published author. How's it working out for you, knowing you'll never be as successful as I am?"

It felt really bad, but Draco wasn't about to say that out loud. Instead, he stepped up his verbal assault.

"What the fuck, Granger? If you're so bloody successful, why don't you have better things to do than come visit your worst enemy at work? Maybe you should spend some time clothes shopping instead, unless that's your job - official Ministry nun. I always suspected Weasley was into blokes, but now I'm sure of it. If you fuck anything like you dress, that is." _And if you fuck anything like you fight, sign me up_, Draco thought. This woman must have been driving him batty, or he wouldn't be having such hysterical thoughts. He also wouldn't have been arguing about minor issues that had been relevant when he was thirteen, but there it was. It had been so long since they'd seen each other that there wasn't anything new to fight about. They stood centimetres apart, locked in an intense stalemate. Draco felt alive, but he also wanted to kill Hermione Granger and then himself. It was a strange feeling.

He blinked, and then it was over. A curious calm came over the shop, which had gone so quiet that Draco could hear the rain. He took a step back, and so did Hermione. She still had those crazy eyes, but the rest of her face had gone back to normal.

"I've had enough of this," she pronounced, but Draco could tell she was lying, or maybe he just hoped so. "Have you put any more thought into jumping off that cliff?"

"No," he said. With people like her in the world, he wouldn't need extreme sports to get an adrenaline rush. She raised her eyebrows and smiled with half of her mouth.

"That's too bad," she said. Then she turned and left, not bothering with her umbrella this time.

Draco watched her as she walked to the end of the block in the pouring rain and Disapparated. His breathing was still erratic, his heart was pounding wildly in his chest, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out what just happened. He closed his eyes, buried his hands in his hair, and began to count. By the time he reached forty, he was forced to concede that this wasn't helping.

He opened his eyes just as the door was opening again. For a second he thought Hermione was coming back to torment him some more, but it was Maggie. She caught sight of Draco's traumatised appearance and hurried over.

"Draco, what's wrong? You look flushed. Are you feeling feverish?" She pressed a cool hand to his forehead, and he closed his eyes. His mother had done this when he'd been ill as a child, and he found it extremely comforting. She moved her hand to touch his cheeks and neck and then shook her head. "No, no fever. Did something happen while I was gone?"

"I'm fine," Draco said, opting to answer a different question from the one she'd actually asked. He knew he was looking guilty, and she gave him the mum-eye.

"Are you sure there isn't anything you'd like to tell me?"

"No, nothing happened. Nobody even came in to buy a drink," he said, which he thought was a rather brilliant half-truth. He was pretty sure that Hermione Granger hadn't come in for a drink, just a good fight.

"Nobody came in at all?" she clarified. Maybe it hadn't been as brilliant as Draco thought. He looked away. "So, somebody came in, but not for a drink, and they got you all flustered. I wonder who would do something like that."

"Dunno," he muttered.

"I'm not surprised she came in today. Word on the street is the Ministry's been doing a bit of reorganising, if you catch my meaning." Draco didn't, so she elaborated. "They're trying to push out anybody who wants to see real change by not-so-subtly moving them to a new department. They're calling it the Department of Internal Reforms, but they might as well call it the Department of People We Don't Like. I suspect the woman in question was given an upper-level position."

"I've no idea who you're talking about," he said, glancing round at anything but Maggie.

"Then I suppose I'm mistaken," she teased, but then her face turned serious. "Look at me, Draco." He took his time, and she waited until he'd finished casually surveying the room.

"What is it?" he asked at last.

"Are you worried that I'm upset with you?" He made a noncommittal noise. "I'm not about to go out of my head trying to figure out what's going on between you and Hermione. Truth told, I can't figure out why you don't get on better – you're actually quite similar, I think."

"We hate each other. That's what's going on, and now I'm trapped behind a counter for hours every day, so she thinks she can show up whenever she's upset and take it out on me." It was very similar to what Draco had done to her in school, but that was a long time ago. They were supposed to be more mature these days; he wasn't, but she should have been.

"I'd like you to keep your bickering out of my coffee shop, but it sounds like it isn't entirely your fault. I'll be here on Monday morning to take inventory, so I'll see if I can have a quick chat with her then as well."

Since Draco wasn't more mature, he was secretly hoping Hermione would have a chance to come back before Maggie told her off on Monday.

When he arrived home, there was a letter waiting for him in the foyer, but it must not have been urgent if the owl wasn't instructed to wait for a response.

It was from his mother, telling Draco about her various shopping trips and the good weather. It didn't mention his father once, so he must not have been dead or anything, or she would've said so. For such a long letter, though, he'd have thought the name would've popped up at least once, and he wondered if his parents were actually spending any time together at all. The manor was so large that the three of them could effectively avoid each other for days on end, which they did, but the house in Monaco was smaller.

He wrote a short, vague response about how he was fine and nothing was happening and sent it with one of the owls they'd left at home.

He went to bed a few hours later and tried not to think about anything: not Hermione, not the Ministry, not his father, and not work. That didn't leave much, though, so he wasn't very successful.


	5. Clouds and the Cosmos

**Chapter Five: Clouds and the Cosmos**

Despite Draco's bad luck the previous day, Maggie had concluded that he was ready to handle afternoons on his own. She'd told him that Bianca was pregnant, which was why they were hiring in the first place; the eventual goal was for Bianca to be able to take maternity leave and to allow Maggie and her husband to spend time with the baby. Maggie wouldn't be coming in until later that night to help him close and finish some paperwork.

He'd been surreptitiously watching the clock ever since he'd arrived. The other times Hermione came in, she'd arrived around half past six. He knew it was unlikely that she would come in two days in a row, but she was acting so strangely that he had his hopes up anyway. He'd thought about her last night, against his better judgment, and he reckoned it was just the novelty of the situation and his own idle curiosity. If she kept coming in, he'd figure out what her problem was and get sick of her like before.

He was wondering about her personality, for one thing. Was she this bitchy to everyone she talked to, or just him? He was pretty sure it was just him. Also, more importantly, how _did_ she fuck? He had his suspicions, and they were flattering to say the least.

Once he'd gotten those untoward ideas in his head, he couldn't get them to leave. He didn't feel dirty anymore for fantasizing about Muggle-borns, since he'd picked up his fair share of them at bars in the last two years. In other words, he'd run out of pure-blood witches to fool around with because they all hated him already, and there weren't that many to begin with. After his tragic relationship with Astoria, he'd decided it was time to branch out. Now that he'd seen that sheen of determination over Hermione Granger's eyes, he was thinking he wouldn't mind seeing something else about her, either.

Half past six came and left, and Draco had basically given up. Hermione wouldn't come in again until Monday morning, and he wouldn't be there, and Maggie would shame her into avoiding Draco forever. The afternoon rush had calmed down, and most of the customers were enjoying the nice weather in the outdoor seating, so he was nearly alone in the shop. He stared at the wall, thinking about how it would suck to never see Hermione Granger again, which wasn't something he'd thought about before - either never seeing her again or whether or not it would suck.

In school, it had felt like she'd be around forever, walking into a classroom next to him so he could knock her books out of her hands like the immature little prat he was. Then came the war, and Draco would like to plead temporary insanity with regards to any thoughts he had during that entire two-year ordeal. He'd seen Hermione tortured on the floor of his home, and it wasn't something he'd wanted to see, and he'd tried to forget it.

In the years after, it seemed like every time he picked up a copy of the _Prophet_, she'd be in it somewhere, doing something good and useful for the world. He'd never told anyone about this, but he felt some kind of cosmic connection to that little pack of stupid Gryffindors that he'd picked on for six years. He still hated Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley was just a complete joke, and his sister was pretty hot even though Draco couldn't recall her name, but Hermione was something different.

She walked in at seven o'clock, and she looked better than usual. She wasn't wearing her work robes, and her hair wasn't pulled back. As she approached the counter, it was clear from her stiff walk that she was trying to appear as calm as possible, but it wasn't working. She placed her hands firmly on the counter and pressed her lips together.

Maggie wasn't there, there weren't that many customers inside, and he knew what she wanted. He gave her a predatory grin. This was the last time, so he'd better make it good.

"Well, look who it is. I'm smiling, see, just like you told me to. How was your day?" he said slowly, lacing each word with cruel sarcasm.

"Don't even pretend like you care about anybody except yourself, Malfoy. But for your information, it was really bloody awful." She looked down at her hands on the counter.

Well, this wasn't how he'd pictured things. Like every conversation he'd ever had with Hermione Granger, he felt like he was in over his head.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "We haven't seen each other for years, and then the last two times you saw me, you told me to jump off a cliff. Then you show up today knowing I'd be here, when you're already upset. What is your problem, Granger?" She didn't seem likely to respond, so he kept going. "Does it make you feel better to see me here, working a shit job, taking orders from everybody else? You can yell at me - I don't care, it's all the excitement I'm going to get," he snarled. He wasn't sure what he was talking about, but he really wanted to know what her grand plan was. He knew why he wanted to talk to her: he loved arguing, and she was good at it, and it felt good to scream when it felt like nobody could hear him. He could not for the life of him figure out why she would want to talk to him. She was still giving him that strange look, with her head tilted slightly to one side.

"It does make me feel better to see you put in your place, actually, but I don't know if that's why I'm here anymore. I always used to come and see Bianca after I had a hard day, and now it's just you in the afternoons." She scowled at the counter. "Oh, and the Ministry's gone completely off the rails. Would it kill you to ask if I want a drink?"

"What?" he sputtered.

"You know, your job? Making drinks for people? I want one."

"We don't have the kind of drink you need here, Granger," he said. She sighed and shook her head.

"I'm aware of that. I want some cinnamon cocoa, with lots of whipped cream. Nobody else makes the kind I want, so I had to come here."

Draco had been through a lot of really awkward moments in his life. The reigning champion was that time when he had, at the age of twelve, walked in on Severus Snape getting out of the shower in the manor's bathroom. He saw _everything_. This moment with Hermione Granger was a close second. She'd gone through so many moods since she'd walked in that Draco's head was spinning. He felt like he knew a whole lot about her, but he didn't. He wanted to make fun of her, but the words weren't coming.

Since they were children, there had been several reasons why it was fun to pick on Hermione. One: she was a virtuous person, which meant that if he attacked with words, she was probably not going to fight back with her wand. This was a very important factor for a school bully, as it was simply impractical to call names at somebody who was going to hex you. Draco liked his facial features exactly where they were. Two: it was easy. She wore her heart on her sleeve, her opinions on her face, and her hair in a giant frizz-ball. Draco could have insulted her for a month straight without ever running out of material. Three: it was fun to watch when she got angry, with her cheeks red and her face scrunched up and her arms all a-flail.

There was also a fourth reason, which was that she could take it, and she would fight back. There had been a time in Draco's life when it felt good to make fun of people like Longbottom and Hagrid, people who would get sad before they got angry and sooner run off to cry than pull together a snappy comeback. It turned out that it got boring after a while, though, and he needed a bit of intellectual stimulation mixed in with his bickering.

That was why he liked Blaise and Pansy; he could say whatever he wanted to them, and they would respond in kind. With the two of them currently out of the picture, Hermione Granger had been a welcome substitute. She clearly wasn't up for it today, and he gave up.

He moved down the counter to start fixing the drink. "Can you make a bubble in the shape of John Dawlish's head on a platter?" she asked, without looking up.

Draco smirked. How vindictive. He happened to know from the _Prophet_ that Hermione worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, headed by Dawlish. He didn't know why they gave that bloke such a high-ranking position; Dawlish had been an Auror for many years before his promotion, and it seemed like he was always being hexed or stunned or otherwise incapacitated.

He also knew that Dawlish had been one of the officials who'd worked with his father during the war, back when the Ministry didn't hate the Malfoys so much, and "gets along with Lucius Malfoy" wasn't exactly the greatest qualification for the Head of Magical Law Enforcement to have. He wasn't sure what Hermione was referring to in her pronouncement about the Ministry's descent into madness, but he was curious enough to start reading the news again.

He didn't like to think about politics too much, but he knew some things about the politics of life. Just because you were right didn't mean that anybody was going to listen, for example. Even if you built something great, there was no telling if there'd be anyone to maintain it. Appearance was everything. The funny thing was that he reckoned Hermione knew all those things, too. In typical Gryffindor fashion, she was prepared to ram herself stubbornly into reality until the fabric of the universe bent and stretched to accommodate her. He wasn't surprised that it hadn't worked.

He finished mixing the cocoa, charmed the best Dawlish's-head-on-a-platter bubble he could muster, and topped it with a generous amount of whipped cream. He brought it to Hermione and placed it between her hands on the counter.

"It doesn't look like him," she said.

"Did you really want a perfect likeness of that ugly git?" he asked, offended that she'd criticised his work, but she smiled - not directly at him, but he could see it on her down-turned face, and it was a strange sight.

"No, I guess not," she muttered. She looked up at him again, the challenge back on her face. "But I guess I was expecting a little too much out of Draco Malfoy, the famous coffee bubble artist. Where'd you learn to do that, a clown at a birthday party?"

Draco didn't know what a clown was, and he was insulted that she was making fun of his new skill, but he played along anyway. "I taught myself, thank you very much," he said, "and I bet you couldn't do it. You thought you were so great at Arithmancy, but you clearly know nothing of the fine arts." He lifted his chin, knowing what she would say, aware that he had left himself wide open for her next comment. He might've even done it on purpose, but it didn't really matter.

"Yes, the fine bubble coffee arts. I can't say I do know much about those." She pulled out her wand, causing Draco to step back on reflex, and she had the nerve to laugh at him. Instead of hexing him, she stuck it into the glass and stabbed the Dawlish bubble savagely, popping it, and shook her head with a sneer. "That bastard. I didn't need that job anyway. I've still got royalties coming in from my books, and I was only there because they needed me. They needed me to help fix the mess they'd made, but it turned out they didn't want to do any work."

Draco's head was spinning again, but at least he didn't need to read the news: apparently, Hermione Granger had been sacked. The Ministry really _was_ going off the rails, in that case. She looked up into his eyes when he didn't respond, and he tried to camouflage the look on his face, but it was too late. She saw it. She knew he almost may have agreed with her for a second, and he still just wanted to know what was going on. He decided he might as well make it look intentional, so he nodded once. She took a sip of her drink.

"Well, it turns out there is something you can do properly," she said. "This is adequate."

Adequate? "Yes," he said. "That's _exactly_ what I strive for - adequacy."

"It shows. Dream big, hey?" He scowled, wishing he could take back his nod. "I guess I'd better get home. Don't jump off any cliffs, Malfoy."

"I wasn't going to," he snapped. She took her drink and left.

There were a few more customers near the end of the night, but not too many, and Draco may have smiled at all of them. He should have been angry or bored or at the very least broody, but somehow he was content. When Maggie arrived, he smiled at her, too.

"Someone's in a good mood," she said. "What happened this time?"

"Nothing. I'm not allowed to be in a good mood?"

"I was beginning to think that you aren't able to. You come in here every day looking like you've got this big, black rain cloud following you around everywhere. It's just nice to see you smile, that's all."

They lapsed into silence while Draco cleaned the storefront, and Maggie sat in the back room sorting through parchments and counting money. When they both were finished, they walked to the door together. It was now or never, he decided.

"I don't think it's necessary for you to talk to Granger on Monday." He looked away casually as he said this, but he could practically hear her eyebrows shoot up.

"Oh? And why's that?" she asked, all innocent-like.

"I just don't think it's needed."

"I see," she said. "I'll trust your judgment on this matter. It sounds like you can handle things without my help." He glanced over, and she winked. Great, now she had crazy thoughts in her head, too.

"Excuse me, I don't –"

"Good night!" she interrupted. She Disapparated as soon as they stepped outside, which Draco reckoned was for the best, considering he didn't know what he was about to say anyway.


	6. Fire and Grangers

**Chapter Six: Fire & Grangers**

Draco had his first day off on Saturday, and he wasn't sure what to do with himself. He was feeling lonely again without work, since having a job made it easy to forget he was still a sad guy with two friends.

Actually, the friend count needed some revision: Maggie counted as half, Bianca counted as one-fourth (_Hermione Granger counts as one-fifth or so – _no, he did not just think that, never mind), and he reckoned that each of his regular customers counted for some small percentage, too. He really had three friends already, but it would be tough to show them to Blaise, considering it took about fifty people and an abacus to put together the third one.

He'd been trying to decide what to do with the day when Blaise's head appeared in his fireplace, and Draco scowled at his former second friend.

"Hello, Malfoy," he said. "I see you haven't killed yourself yet."

He ignored that – rose above it, really, since he was obviously the bigger person here. "What are you doing here, anyway?" he asked instead. "I haven't got another friend yet."

"I'm not surprised, to be honest, but I heard you had a job. How's that going?"

"I think it's going rather well," he said, with a hint of pride. "I'm almost friends with my boss."

"What, with Maggie? Does that really count? You and old mum hang out at the Cauldron?"

"It's not necessary to talk about Maggie that way. But no, we don't, hence the 'almost.'"

Blaise raised his eyebrows. He wasn't used to Draco defending people, especially easy targets like children and the elderly. Those weren't worth too many points, but they were still fair game. "Sorry, McGonagall," he said dryly. "Going to dock some points for it?"

"I thought you said you'd be proud of me if I made a friend and got a job. I didn't know you were going to be so picky about it."

Blaise pulled back and softened. "I'm only joking, mate. It sounds like you're doing better." He paused, with a vague look of disgust. "When did we turn into such sentimental flobberworms? It has to be all this pure and Pansy-free air."

"Must be." It was a strange feeling to miss a friend while simultaneously being glad she was gone. This was in contrast to the usual affair: wishing she would leave while enjoying her company, since there was no relaxing with her. He was always on high alert, trying to work out the hidden meanings in the things she said and always deciding whether it was appropriate to be slightly insulted or deeply offended. He looked forward to her return, and never would be too soon. "So," he added at length, "how's the family?"

"They're fine. Daphne was well-pleased when I told her you wouldn't be around for a while. It's odd, though – Amarantha already wants to know where you've been. Reckon she thinks you're a bad-arse, or some such rubbish, and wants your approval because you're so distant. You know, typical bad boy-good girl attraction, except she's five."

"Maybe she just likes me," he suggested.

"No, that can't be it."

"I told you I'd stop lying to her, though. I'll be nice."

"Thanks, but we won't be needing any of that. What if she likes you even more? It'll be a nightmare – Amarantha and I spending all our time with you, while Daphne gets angrier and angrier until one day she just walks out on us. You want that on your head, you home-wrecker?"

Draco grinned, delighted at this turn of events. Perhaps Daphne would come around eventually, when she saw how polite and tactful Draco was learning to be, but for now it was still a bit of a lark to get under her skin. "Why don't you put her on and let me talk to her? She'll be happy because she got to see me," he preened at this, "and Daphne won't get mad at you."

"That's what I was going for, actually." Blaise paused to look behind him furtively before calling for his daughter, then made stern eye contact with Draco. "All right, this is your trial period right now. If she comes back out crying, I'm revoking your godfather card." Draco nodded innocently as Blaise's head disappeared, and in its place his little girl appeared.

"Draco!" she said, showing him her baby teeth.

Draco smiled back. "Hi, Amarantha. How are you?"

"I saw a play yesterday, and everybody was dressed really funny, and there were hippogriffs in it."

"What was it about?" he asked, like he cared.

She scrunched up her face, trying to remember. "It was a long time ago, and the hippogriffs didn't have any food. But then there was a girl one, but it was dressed as a boy hippogriff, and the pretty lady lived happily ever after!"

"That sounds really good," he said. Amarantha was fidgeting and peeking into the manor, a place she was rarely allowed to visit. In record time, she had already thought of something she'd rather be doing than talking to grown-ups over the Floo.

"I'm going outside. Bye!" From the motion of her head, he could tell she was waving at the fireplace from beyond his view. He returned the wave, and her head disappeared to be replaced by her father.

"That wasn't bad," he said. "She seems happier than before she talked to you."

"Which play did you see?"

"Oh, she's still talking about that? We saw _As You Like Les Hippogriffs_. She's never been to one before, and she could scarcely sit still through it, she was so excited. I had a bit of trouble following the story myself; there was too much going on, and I wasn't even sure what the time period was supposed to be. Weird writing, but I guess I should've expected that, considering it's an adaptation of a Muggle play. I think they added the hippogriffs at the last second to try and make it more magical."

"Why would you see a Muggle play?" He wasn't sure why they'd be putting it on at all, but he was even more nonplussed that Blaise would go see it.

"Daphne wanted to go to a show, and that's all they've got running. Have you looked at what's going up at the Artemis Theatre? It's awful – they've got Muggle plays, Muggle books in the book store, and all the good shops are selling Muggle-inspired robes. I bought a copy of_ Pride and Clockwork Oranges of Monte Cristo_ to see what the fuss was about_,_ and I don't think I have ever been so confused in my entire life. I can't imagine how strange this stuff must be without our editors to clean it up. "

That explained why he hadn't recognized any of the authors in the new releases section, not to mention the odd dress robes his mother had been wearing lately. He'd been forced to assume everyone who came into the Raven was Muggle-born or destitute because of their supremely bad fashion sense, but apparently that _was_ the fashion. Draco was the one who was out of date. "Really? Muggles are supposed to be cool now?"

"As I said, I don't understand it, either. I've got to say, though, some of their music is damn good. They have these flat, metal circles with a hole in the centre, and that's how they listen to it." Blaise looked impressed by this, as though it were some kind of remarkable feat to make a flat, metal circle. "There's a new store in Diagon Alley that sells them. The shopkeeper told me that the Muggles use special machines to make them go, but they worked out a spell that does the same thing. They're called See Dees. I've got one called Pink Floyd, and –"

"All right, now I know you're on drugs. What kind of potions have you been taking? Can you hear yourself right now?"

"No, it's not like that. I know you don't get out much, but you've got to face the facts: our kind just doesn't have a flair for music. You can't tell me you aren't sick to death of the Weird Sisters. Did you know Muggles will travel all around the world – with their primitive technology, no less – just to see their favourite musicians play the same songs they've already heard? There are hundreds of thousands of musicians, all making different kinds of music, with little Muggle machines to make the noises. It's rather impressive, when you think about it."

"I've thought about it just now, and it's ridiculous."

"Get with the times, Malfoy. I swear I must've seen half the current Hogwarts batch at the See Dee store. I heard some of those kids have over a hundred different kinds of See Dees already."

"No, I still don't think I care what Muggles think is good."

"Nobody expects you to – I'm telling you that _I_ think it's good. Anyway, I've got to get back to my family before Daphne wonders who's on the other end of this call. When Pansy returns, we should all get together for drinks."

"I'll Floo you later this week."

Blaise's head disappeared from the fire, leaving Draco with plenty to think about, as usual. That tended to happen when a person was in the process of redefining himself and questioning everything he ever thought he knew. He wondered if this was how his ancestors had felt when Hogwarts first admitted Muggle-borns.

In other words, he felt like a grouchy old codger, shaking his wand at teenagers on his lawn. It was uncomfortable. He decided he might as well spend his day off investigating the new phenomenon, since he had nothing better to do. Muggle culture: what was the world coming to?

He took the Floo to Diagon Alley, more careful this time to observe the robes on the witches and wizards around him. Instead of buttons, many of them were held closed with a thin line of tiny silver bits, which he thought looked absolutely ridiculous. He noticed hats that were rounded on top, with a partial brim that extended much too far over the wearer's forehead – again, ridiculous. It was remarkable the sort of things a person could learn about the world around him when he stopped staring at the pavement everywhere he went.

His first stop was Flourish & Blotts, where he hoped to get his hands on some Muggle literature. He read a few titles in the new releases section, all of which were extremely long and convoluted like the one Blaise had mentioned. He eventually settled on _Frankenstein 451_ because it was short. He was already confused by the description on the back, but he was determined to see if he could understand the novel. Between his long-standing passion for literature and his giant ego, he was pretty sure he could do better than his friend. Blaise was a highly intelligent man, especially with numbers and business sense, but a voracious reader he was not.

He stopped into his favourite robe shop next. The House of Boudreaux was an upscale brand from Paris, and there was a store in Diagon Alley where Draco had purchased most of his wardrobe. The robes were extremely expensive and well-made, and he rarely needed to replace them, especially since wizarding fashion hadn't exactly changed that much in, say, the last century or so. It had never occurred to Draco just how monotonous it was until he walked into Boudreaux that day.

The entire store had been redone, and he was struck by how clean it was. It was cleaner than St. Mungo's. The walls were bright white and made from a smooth, nonporous material unfamiliar to his hand, with a light source inside that gave off a harsh glow. The floors were white marble, and he could have sworn there wasn't a single shadow in the entire place.

A young woman came to greet him, wearing the strangest outfit he'd ever seen: she had on no robes at all. There was just a crisp white undershirt-type garment with long sleeves and buttons down the front, tucked neatly into a very tight black strip of fabric that wrapped her from her waist to just above her knees. She wore shiny black shoes with tall spikes under the heels, with a cascade of brightly-coloured jewels around her neck. She was very tall and thin, and he could tell she was French. She looked him over shrewdly, and her final verdict appeared to be confusion. He could imagine why: his robes were Boudreaux, custom-designed for him… five years ago. She probably couldn't figure out why such a wealthy and loyal customer would go five years without updating his look.

"Hello, my honoured guest," she said, with just a hint of an accent.

"What on earth are you wearing?" was what fell out of Draco's mouth.

She gave him an icy look, partially obscuring the Galleon signs in her eyes, and said: "I am wearing the latest fashion in Boudreaux, monsieur." It was quite obvious that she had more to say, possibly relating to Draco's current clothing situation, but she held her tongue. She must have known better than to risk losing a commission from a rich bloke who hadn't bought clothes since the Fudge administration.

"You look like a Muggle," he said.

"And _you_ look like –" She paused with a strained smile. "You look like a gentleman who needs some new clothes." Nice save.

Maybe it was the intimidating atmosphere of the white stone, the blinding lights, and this beautiful woman with her superior attitude, but Draco conceded defeat. The times were changing. He couldn't deal with the idea that others were better-dressed than he was – he had the money, he had the body (if he did say so himself), and he was determined to be the best-looking wizard anyone had seen all day.

"What would you recommend?" He put on a charming smile and added, "Price is not an issue."

She escorted him to a tiny white room with a strange-looking chair, where she took his measurements and then disappeared. He sat in the chair, which was shaped like half an egg with cushions inside, and tipped it over trying to recline. As he hurried to right it before she returned, he thought about how this was a perfect example of what everything Muggle was like: silly-looking and impractical. Neither form nor function.

She came back with an armful of clothes and laid them out, leaving him alone with an array of light-weight and form-fitting items. Much of it resembled her clothing – white button-downs with black trousers similar to the ones he already wore under his robes. Apparently, the new fashion was to walk around in only one's underthings.

He was relieved that almost everyone still wore robes around Diagon Alley, but it was only a matter of time before _haute couture_ styles trickled down to the masses, at which time he'd be treated to a clear outline of everyone's belly and bum. Some of the shirts were in different colours, and some of them had no buttons or collars at all. He would feel naked wearing any of them without robes.

He tried the clothes on anyway, and generally he liked what he saw. The button-downs were tailored to highlight the shape of his torso, and the trousers fit him perfectly as well. The woman showed him how to wear a strip of leather through the holes in the waistband to keep them up. He smiled at his reflection, and she smiled at him. He decided to take the whole lot, and then she brought in one more kind of trousers. They were a heavy, dark blue fabric with one of those metal closures Draco had seen on robes. The woman explained that it was called a "zipper" and showed him how to operate it. The garment was called "jeans," and there were four pockets, which the woman explained were mostly for decoration. He put them on and felt completely obscene.

"I'll take these, too," he said, "but don't you have _any_ robes?"

"Yes, we have a new style of those. Let me bring you some."

She returned with some very thin robes with no closures, since they were meant to be left open to provide a view of the clothing beneath them. Draco added them to his bill and paid for his purchases, then went home to read his book.

* * *

Three hours later, he was only a little more than half-way through the short novel. It was about a man whose job was to burn all of everyone's books because the government didn't want anyone to have knowledge. Instead, the people were forced to entertain themselves with mundane drivel projected as images on the walls of their homes. It was also about a man who had created a killer by accident, but there wasn't as much of his story in the first half.

In a desperate bid to understand the chain of events, he'd even tried making a timeline, except half the dates were in the future and the other half were in the past. He couldn't put it down, despite his utter bewilderment, because the characters were too interesting. He had trouble understanding them, too, but it wasn't because of the Muggle language. There was a murderous monster who was also remorseful, a book-burner who didn't know what to believe, and a cowardly doctor who couldn't take responsibility for his own actions.

There was also a character who knew what he had to do and wasn't afraid, a man who knew the value of books and knowledge and freedom. Coincidentally, that man was called Granger, and Draco couldn't stop thinking about how similar the character was to another Granger he knew. That was what Hermione would do if the Ministry were out there burning books, he was certain: she'd make up a stupid name for her group of righteous misfits and do everything she could to save the world.

He couldn't help but relate to Montag, the book-burner, because that was exactly how he'd felt as a teenager. Montag didn't have anyone to talk to or trust, and he was being forced to perform a terrible task that he didn't want to do, at his own peril. When Montag finally decided that maybe he did have a choice after all, it was hard and scary, but it was better.

It almost made Draco wish he'd left his house sooner instead of hiding for the better part of a decade. His timeline was covered in cross-outs, question marks, and arrows leading nowhere, and it was time for bed. He fell asleep thinking about fire and Grangers.

* * *

The next day, he put on a new pair of black trousers and a button-down shirt.

Then, he changed his mind. The woman at the shop had explained that the shirts without collars were for casual dress, and he decided to be daring and put on something completely different for his lazy Sunday shift. In a move considerably less daring than Draco perceived it to be, he traded out the button-down for a black t-shirt with his new robes over top. His mirror informed him that he looked like he was going to a sexy funeral but didn't much care that the person in question had died, and as such had simply thrown on whatever was black.

He felt exposed in Diagon Alley, despite the fact that his new clothes fit in better with the crowd than his old ones. He'd never worn anything so tight out of the house in his life, but he did notice a few more looks from the witches.

When he arrived at the Raven, Bianca stared openly. "Wow, Draco," she said. "Did you finally notice it's spring?"

"No, I've just decided to update my look a bit, but thanks for the encouragement," he said, pouting, but she only laughed.

"I'm kidding. I think you look nice."

"Thank you," he said, gratified. There was a renewal to his confidence, now that he wasn't bogged down with heavy robes. His summer set were enchanted to deflect heat and prevent sweating, but he could still feel the weight.

Bianca finished a few tasks and left, while Draco sat on a stool behind the counter and pulled out his book. He read on and off for a few hours, helping customers in between, and it was easier to understand the writing when he took his focus off the mixed-up plot and thought about the characters. Frankenstein's monster had been stalking the woods until a voice took him back to reality.

"What are you reading?" asked Hermione Granger. After she saw the title, he could tell she disapproved. "Oh, it's one of those. You know this is supposed to be two books, right?" He hadn't known that, but it made a lot of sense. "I don't understand how those editors come up with this stuff. They pick a few Muggle books at random and combine them, and it doesn't really work, and then people think Muggles just don't know how to write books."

"Why would they do that? I've read almost the entire Malfoy library, and I almost chucked this thing in the bin when I first tried to read it," he said. It was only Muggle literature, but it was still offensive to him that someone would ruin books like that.

"Honestly, I'm not sure. I think it's because Muggles have been writing books just as long as wizards have, so there are thousands of good ones, and they want to print as many as possible quickly to capitalize on the trend. Maybe it's hard for them to figure out which ones are related to each other and which ones aren't, since Muggle things all blend together for those people." In her eagerness to share her opinions, she must have momentarily forgotten that Draco was a card-carrying member of _those people_. His first instinct was to be offended by the way she'd said it, and it didn't help as much as it should have to remind himself that Muggle-related knowledge was not a valid intellectual pursuit.

"Have you read the two books from this one?" he asked, moving back to a more comfortable subject.

"Yes, and they're both good. I haven't read this version, but I've read some of the other magical edits of Muggle books, and they're deplorable. If I hadn't read the originals, I would have been completely lost."

"Frankenstein and the monster are one story, and Montag is the other one?" he guessed.

"Right." She paused, thinking. "Would you like to read them separately? I have them, and I could bring them to you. If you want, that is. They haven't got a Muggle glossary in the back, but it would probably still be easier to understand than this bizarre combination."

Draco really wanted those books, but he wasn't about to show it. "I guess you could if you want to. I suppose Muggle literature isn't all bad; it's almost like reading normal novels that were originally written in other languages. They've got a different way of writing."

"That's not a bad way to put it. Most wizarding novels are so flowery with their prose, and they're all about what's happening rather than the characters. Muggles can write whole books where only one or two things happen the entire time, and the rest of it's just a character talking and thinking. They can write whole books about just one day or even a few hours in someone's life."

"That sounds boring," he observed, and she gave him the side-eye.

"It depends on who's writing it. One of my favourites is by a Muggle called Kafka. It's called_ The Metamorphosis_, and it's actually quite short, but it's about this fellow who turns into a bug – well, symbolically – and spends the whole story locked in his room."

"How does he get turned into a bug if they don't know what magic is?"

She sighed, as though talking to a child. "It's not magic. He just wakes up one day, and he's a bug. Kafka never tells you how he got that way."

"That sounds as confusing as the ones they've got in Flourish & Blotts."

"Well, it's not. Once you start reading Muggle literature, you'll get the hang of it." She was gathering steam, clearly excited about the subject. "The interesting thing about Muggles is that there are so many – I mean, their world is larger than this world many times over. There are millions of them, in more than a hundred different countries, all thinking and doing different things. I think that's why magical people are finally embracing Muggle culture – they've been suppressing their curiosity all this time because they used to be persecuted for their magic, so they resented the Muggles. Over time, the anti-awareness campaigns have been so successful that no Muggle would dare to suggest that a witch could exist. It's safe now to explore all the good things they've made, and it's also a novelty. Most of the wizards who grew up in magical households have never seen any of this stuff." Once again, she'd conveniently forgotten that she was talking about him.

"I read a book about Muggles once when I was a kid. It wasn't very good, and all the Muggles were really thick. I didn't know they could be so…" he gestured to his book, "…not thick." He didn't want to over-compliment the Muggles, but he'd never read anything quite like this.

"Is that why you're dressed as one?" she asked. He frowned, just short of a scowl.

"I'm not dressed as a Muggle. I am dressed in the latest look from Boudreaux, which you probably haven't even heard of."

"Oh, I've heard of Boudreaux, all right, those pretentious prats. I went into their shop a few years ago, and let's just say I was more than capable of paying for some new dress robes, but this woman took one look at me and practically escorted me out. That makes sense, actually – I bet you fit right in at that place."

"As you've learned, it's not enough just to have the cash. You need the attitude."

He gave her a superior look as he considered the implications of what he'd just said. She was a sad case when he thought about it, with all those brains and ideas and ambition packed into one small witch with self-esteem problems. She erred on the side of being too serious because people didn't take her seriously.

"If someone isn't willing to look past appearances and see what's really important, I don't want anything to do with them," she sniffed, but he didn't let her get away with it.

"Oh, please, Granger. There's no way you're dumb enough to believe something as simplistic as that rot. There's no way to stop people caring about looks – the only way you can get anything done is if you play along."

"Is that your strategy? Play along?" After more than a decade of acquaintance, she must have known by now that it was indeed. "I think a lot of times playing along is something you do when you don't have the courage to break the rules. And you know what else, Malfoy?" He could tell from the flash of her eyes that she was about to say something she'd been wanting to say since she walked in. He leaned forward.

"What?"

"I have heard you asking other people if they want a drink, so I really don't know why you never ask me."

That was anticlimactic. He took a step back. "Fine. What do you want?"

"An iced latte," she said.

He gave a sharp nod and moved down the counter to make it.

"I didn't know you Malfoys had a library," she remarked, apropos of nothing, as he measured the ingredients.

"Yes, actually we do find time to read the occasional book during breaks from the nefarious plotting," he said.

He wasn't ever going to tell her this, but he'd also read one of her books. It was a series of interviews with house-elves, and he'd been shocked that she had been able to collect so much information. None of his elves had been quoted, but many other pure-blood families had been vocal about their outrage.

It had been an eye-opening experience to learn that house-elves had thoughts, feelings, and opinions of their own. After finishing it, he'd had his first ever conversation with one of his elves. She had told him that she loved gardening, but her least favourite task was cleaning bathtubs. She was friends with some of the other elves, and on evenings off they played simple games together. He couldn't be sure of it, but he thought he may have been treating the elves better since then, punishing them less and giving them more free time. He wasn't about to pay them – he knew house-elves, and they didn't want that – but if they made a mistake, perhaps it wasn't necessary to make them feel even worse about it. They could apologise and try again.

He finished the drink and placed it before her on the counter. Once again, she took a sip and informed him that it was "adequate."

"You know it's better than that," he said. "You just don't want to admit it."

"You're so conceited. I'll bring you those books tomorrow."

He watched her walk away, and he couldn't wait until tomorrow.


	7. Depressants

**Chapter Seven: Depressants**

On Monday, Hermione had brought Draco three books instead of just two:_ Fahrenheit 451_ by Ray Bradbury_, Frankenstein_ by Mary Shelley, and _The Metamorphosis_ by Franz Kafka_._He noticed that each one was quite thin, unlike any regular book he'd ever seen. At first he'd reckoned he could get through the whole lot in one evening because they were so short, and he'd wondered if Muggles just had less to talk about or knew fewer words or something. After he read the Bradbury book, he changed his mind. He finished it in four hours, and then he closed it carefully in his lap and stared straight ahead for a long time.

It turned out that Muggles had quite a lot to say, and they didn't bother to distract you with lavish descriptions of dress robes, ballrooms, and mood lighting. He'd been used to having that sort of languid prose around to soften the blow, but Muggle writers were merciless. They didn't care if he cried, or he got so angry he couldn't see the pages anymore, or it got so intense he had to look away and stare at the wall and wonder what the use was in even having walls, if this was what the world was like. He'd never put much thought into life without magic in an empathetic sort of way; when something went wrong for the characters in his books, there was no one who could wave a wand and fix it.

If this was the sort of terrifying stuff Hermione Granger had grown up reading, he could understand why she was so passionate about everything. Draco used to think he was well-acquainted with fear, but tonight he felt like he'd never known anything at all. From childhood, the things he'd been afraid of were logical and concise: death, his father, Voldemort, and failure, in that order. Malfoys had a reputation for being cowardly, but he'd always thought it was because they were simply pragmatic. On the other hand, the thing about wizards was that they were hard to kill: when there wasn't a war going on, murder in the magical community was exceedingly rare, and Draco could expect to live upwards of 150 years with the current medical magic.

It was odd, then, that such a resilient race would be the ones who fought the hardest to stay the inevitable. Somehow, the Muggles seemed to understand that little gem of wisdom that had eluded much of the wizarding world for so long: death wasn't the enemy. Sure, Dumbledore and a few of those other crazy old fellows had tried to explain it, but Draco just didn't believe them – of course, death was the worst thing that could happen to someone. It was _death._

In Muggle books, dying was just another thing that happened to people, and they had to get over it because there were more important things to worry about. Hermione had explained to him that this book wasn't about what was really happening in the Muggle world, but he knew some parts of it were true. They still had machines just for killing each other, and there were so many people that it was impossible for anybody to look after them all.

Individuals could do anything they wanted over there, no matter how evil or unlawful or dumb, and a lot of the time they'd just get away with it. He'd never fully comprehended how sheltered he was just because he grew up with magic, which was ironic considering he'd fought in a war as a teenager. The world was so much larger than he had ever imagined.

He didn't have it in him to start the next one that night. Instead he lay in bed, and it took him forever to fall asleep.

* * *

The first thing Draco did at work the next day was make himself a strong cup of coffee with extra Pepper-up. His mind had overexerted itself trying to explore moral issues, and now it had gone on holiday with no warning, save a quick note scribbled on the inside of his skull about Jamaica and rum. When he walked in with those big, dark zombie eyes, Bianca was so convinced he was sick that she almost sent him home.

He handled the after-work rush with considerable difficulty and may have snapped at a few old ladies, but it was all worth it when Hermione finally made her appearance. He handed her the book he'd finished, and she smiled.

"You read that quickly," she said. "Did you like it?"

"I've never been more depressed in my life," he said, and he'd been pretty depressed.

Her smile went away. "Then you won't like the other ones, either."

"I didn't say I didn't like it. What does it mean?"

"What do you think it means?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

He didn't want to tell her he didn't know, so he took a guess. "I think the author's warning people about what it would be like if they stopped thinking for themselves and just followed orders all the time. It was much better than the edited version, though. I wasn't confused about how the story was going."

"That's part of it," she said, nodding. "It's also about American Muggle culture, which you wouldn't really know about. He was frustrated because people weren't reading books anymore the way they used to. In the Muggle world, they have television and all kinds of other entertainment, so hardly anyone reads books."

"That's sad," he said.

"That's what Bradbury thought, too." She opened her mouth to speak again, but Draco cut her off.

"Don't you dare get cross about this again, because I'm going to say it: would you like a drink?"

She seemed to smile at the strangest times, when normally someone would yell at him, but it was such a great mystery why she even talked to him at all that he wasn't about to tackle the smaller questions just yet.

"I want an iced latte with vanilla," she replied.

He made the drink and placed a book-shaped bubble in the center, and he tried really hard on this one – it had thin pages that turned with the motion of the liquid. She didn't say anything when she saw it, but he could tell from her face that it pleased her. She gave him her money and took a sip.

"This is good," she said.

"I know," he replied. She turned to walk away, but he stopped her. "Wait – do Muggles ever write happy books?" He didn't realise how stupid it was going to sound until after he'd already said it.

She took him seriously, though. "I know they do, but it's hard to think of any. Most of the really good ones are sad, since they're supposed to make you pay attention to what's important."

"If you come up with one, bring it to me."

"I will," she said. She waved goodbye, but he hadn't expected her to do that. He didn't wave back.

* * *

He stared at his two depressing Muggle books whenever he was home, but he wasn't ready to start reading them yet. In his boredom before work the next day, he decided to check out the Muggle music shop in Diagon Alley. He'd been walking past it every day, and it wasn't exactly inconspicuous: gaudy metallic spheres and rings glittered in mid-air around the entrance, and loud music blared into the street. A large sign flashed the shop's name in ever-changing neon colours: The Basement.

Once inside, the selection was overwhelming. Rows of tiny, clear boxes stretched on and on into the narrow room, and Draco didn't know anything about any of them. He didn't even recognize the headings – rock, R&B, techno, and metal, among others. Half of those weren't even words. People were standing in the aisles wearing thick black earmuffs that were attached to the display by a string, many with their eyes closed, and he didn't know why they were doing that. He wandered aimlessly along the first row, marveling at the unexpected artwork on the covers. From the signs he could tell that "CD" was actually an abbreviation, but they didn't say what it stood for. He picked one up, read the song titles, and put it back down.

"Did you need some help over here?" called a voice to his left. He turned to find a middle-aged man with long and ragged hair, wearing a torn t-shirt with faded jeans and strange markings on his arms.

"You look familiar," Draco said.

The man's leathery face folded into a grin. "I'm Donaghan Tremlett. I used to play for the Weird Sisters."

Draco felt starstruck. This man had written and sung the soundtrack to his youth, at the top of the wizarding charts for more than ten years. "I'm a big fan of yours," he said, reaching out to shake Tremlett's hand. He may have held on a bit too long, but this was _Donaghan Tremlett._ He wished he could forget his pride long enough to get an autograph, but his heritage stayed his hand. "Why'd you quit the band?"

Tremlett glanced around the store to see if anyone else needed help, but they didn't. "Since you're such a big fan, you want the whole story?" Draco nodded eagerly. "All right. So, my parents were Muggles, and I grew up with the music here in this shop. Then, I got my Hogwarts letter, and I heard some of the shite people were listenin' to in this world. Made me sick to my stomach, it did. I get to talking to people at school, find out who loves music as much as I do, and that's how we end up getting together. I showed them Muggle music, and they saw how great it was, and we set to emulating that sound, which is how we got so popular. Nobody'd heard that kind of music before. But the years went by, and I was getting less and less satisfied with what we were playing and even more upset about what everybody else was playing. It was like there was only three bands in the whole wizarding world, and we was none of us doing our honest best."

He hadn't known until now that Tremlett was Muggle-born. It certainly put a new spin on all those angsty teenage nights in his dormitory, blasting the Weird Sisters while cursing Hermione Granger for surpassing him in Ancient Runes.

"So, I'm stuck in this rut, right? And then, almost like a blessin' in disguise, that was when Voldemort –" Draco winced at the name – "started making us Muggle-borns get registered. Now, there was no way I was going to register a damn bloody thing with that nutter, pardon my language, so back to Muggle Dublin I go. While I'm there, I play with some Muggle bands, I catch up on the new music, and I don't end up comin' back 'til last year. And aren't I surprised to find out that all of a sudden, everybody wants to be a Muggle." He shook his head with a short, barking laugh. "So, I set to work figuring out how to make CDs play by magic, and then I open up this store, and soon I got Muggle-borns comin' in with their CDs, wantin' to make sure their favourite bands get in, too. I'll still play with the Weird Sisters sometimes, if they owl me and ask real nice, but I'm happy doing this. And I gotta be honest –" he gestured around the room with one arm – "this music's better than anything I ever wrote in my life."

"I like your music quite a bit," said Draco, and Tremlett laughed again.

"Well, I don't want you to think I don't appreciate the compliment because I do. But you might only think so because you never heard this stuff. Would you like some help gettin' started?" Draco nodded. "I made some compilations just for wizards like yourself who never heard any Muggle music before, 'cause it can be a bit harsh at first. Lot more emotional than the music you hear on our radio – a lot more truth to it, I think. There's a rack over there," he indicated a shelf to the left of Draco, "where you can find all types. I'd recommend one of the rock ones."

Draco stepped over to the shelf and browsed through the compilations, which only had a list of songs on the covers instead of artwork. He purchased the one with the least serious song titles, in the hope that Muggles would be just as adept at expressing joyful emotions as they were with the depths of despair. Tremlett asked him to come back with a list of his favourite songs, so he could recommend more music, and Draco continued down the street to the Raven.

When he walked in holding his CD, Bianca asked to see it and looked fondly at the track list. "I think you'll like this, Draco – these are fun songs. You have fun sometimes, right?" she asked, handing it back to him.

"Of course I do," he said, with a somewhat ironic scowl. "I have fun all the time."

"Except right now," she teased.

"I'm not having fun right now because you're making fun of me for not having fun," he said, and she laughed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. It's just that mum and I worry about you. Sometimes you get this look on your face like you're just about the most wistful bloke in Britain."

"Well, you'll be surprised to learn that I'm not," he said, recovering. "I thought I was, but the other day I met a slightly more wistful bloke and was forced to relinquish the title."

She laughed again, and he almost smiled. "That reminds me – mum wanted me to ask if you're free next Wednesday. I know it's Phoenix Day, so you might have other plans, but we'd like to invite you to a little get-together at her house. You can meet the rest of our family."

"Oh," he said, caught off-guard. Was this the clincher for friends three and four or more?

He'd also completely forgotten about the upcoming holiday. Phoenix Day was observed on May second in remembrance of the Battle of Hogwarts, and all the shops would be closed. In the beginning, people celebrated the victory modestly with their families after vigils were held for the fallen; now, they got drunk and set things on fire.

Usually, Draco feted the occasion by remembering it the day of and racing himself to the bottom of a bottle. He remembered when they were first naming it: everyone had initially wanted to call it Harry Potter Day, but the golden boy had pounced on the opportunity to highlight his boundless humility and refused the honour. Instead, Potter had suggested the current title, both for the Order of the Phoenix and also because he'd come up with some first-year quality symbolism about rising from ashes and whatnot. Draco had been less than impressed.

Bianca misinterpreted the look on his face and started talking again, nervously. "If you're busy, I understand, but we'd all kind of like to get to know you better. You're so quiet at work, and dad hasn't even met you yet. I have to tell you, though, he and Will – that's my husband – have stopped in a few times to see what you're like, so you might recognise them. They've said you're very pleasant to customers."

"No, I'm free. I'd like to come," he said, putting her out of her rambling misery.

"Oh, good! Come over at about six. It'll just be a casual dinner, so there's no need to get dressed up or anything. Here, I'll write down mum and dad's Floo address for you." She grabbed a quill from the counter and wrote the information on a napkin. "I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good shift," she said, heading for the door.

Draco placed the napkin in the pocket of his trousers – imagine, trousers with pockets! The Muggles really were onto something with this one – and went back to studying his CD. The only song he couldn't be sure about was the last track: "Crimson and Clover," as performed by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, but he reckoned it couldn't be too melancholy.

Hermione came in later, and she also wanted to see his new CD.

"These are pretty good songs," she said. "The last song is one of my favourites."

"Is it depressing?" he asked, knowing that she liked that sort of thing.

"No, it's a very famous love song, but it is a bit ambiguous. That isn't the original version, but I think it's almost better," she explained, placing the CD back on the counter.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked.

"Yes. I want an iced vanilla latte."

He made her the drink in silence, but she was watching him closely in the most unsettling way. Her gaze was upon him every time he glanced up, and he had to work to dodge eye contact. He brought her the drink, trying not to show his nerves. She paid for it and made an awkward noise like she had something to say, and he waited.

"I brought you a happy book," she said, "but you have to promise not to laugh at the title."

"What's it called?"

"You can look at it." She handed him a well-worn paperback, and it was titled _The Princess Bride_. Since he hadn't technically agreed to the promise, he didn't feel bad about laughing.

"Really, _The Princess Bride_? I guess you haven't noticed, but I'm not actually a ten-year-old girl."

Her cheeks tinted pink with either embarrassment or irritation, but she defended the book. "It's really funny, and it's not meant to be taken seriously. It was one of my favourites as a child."

"So, it _is_ a book for ten-year-old girls," he observed.

"No, it's a book for everyone," she said. "If you don't want a happy book, then you can give it back. Go and be depressed for the rest of your life, and see if I care."

"It's too late – you already gave it to me. I might read it. Who knows?" He shrugged and placed the book under the counter, where she couldn't reach it.

"Has anyone told you today that you are completely infuriating?" He couldn't help but notice that her cheeks were still a bit pink.

"Yes," he lied, "but I promise you can have the first go at it tomorrow."

She sighed and rolled her eyes and left without saying goodbye, but he could tell she wasn't really that infuriated. He lifted a hand to wave at the back of her head, realised what he was doing, and smoothly diverted its path to run it through his hair. Nobody saw that.

He'd been tempted to start the new book at work that day, but there was a steady stream of customers up until close. He didn't get a chance to read more than the back cover, but it did sound happy.

Pansy had returned from her trip that day, so Draco set his new book on an end table and fire-called her after he got home from work. She was sitting at her desk, drinking white wine and drawing with charcoal on a large piece of parchment, and she inclined her chin in greeting.

"Welcome back," he said.

"What is the purpose of your call?" she asked, her voice devoid of emotion. If someone didn't know Pansy, they would think she was being short with him, but really she was expressing interest. If she didn't care to speak with Draco, she would have said so. For someone who literally had unlimited free time, Pansy was quite stingy with it.

"Blaise and I would like to meet you at the Cauldron tomorrow night at eleven."

"Hm," she muttered, taking her time. "I wasn't in any particular hurry to see the two of you, but I suppose that would be all right."

Thank goodness he was making more friends, since he didn't know how much more unmitigated Pansy time he could handle. "If that's how you feel, then this can be our last outing together."

She smiled elegantly with all lips and no teeth and said: "It won't."

In her native tongue, this meant "I like you," and Draco was used to translating. Pansy's language was almost like English, except with fewer words. There was no way to beat around the bush, and it was difficult to discuss feelings.

"Good night," he said, as he pulled his head out of the fire.

* * *

Hermione didn't come in the next day. He wondered if she was mad at him until he realised what a ridiculous concern it was. Of course, she was – he was Draco Malfoy, she was Hermione Granger, and he was pretty sure they would always and forever be at least a little bit mad at each other. In any case, there was no reason to expect her to come in every single day. Perhaps she was busy. Not that it bothered him one way or the other, but he knew she had to come back eventually because he still had three of her favourite books.

He'd been watching every time the door opened, only to completely not care each time when it wasn't Hermione. No, he wasn't disappointed: he was an ocean of apathy, a study in stoicism, a monument to "meh." Yet the shift did seem to drag on a bit longer than usual.

Later, he made it to the Leaky Cauldron at exactly eleven o'clock. Pansy had already been waiting at a table, and she informed him that he was late: in Pansy-ese, "late" meant "arrived after Pansy." Blaise showed up a few minutes after Draco, and she didn't have to say a word. He apologised immediately.

A waitress came over and showed them a smile. "Hello," she said, "how are you folks doing tonight?"

"We're fine, and you?" he asked, just to be polite. Pansy looked at him like he was a changeling, and Blaise snorted. He decided they were both right.

"I'm lovely, sir. Would you like to hear our specials?" The two men nodded, but Pansy didn't. "It's Wednesday, so it's a Galleon off on all our gin drinks, and –"

"_Excuse_ me," said Pansy. "I don't think I heard you properly. You're having a special on drinks with what?"

"With gin," the woman repeated, probably confused by the accusatory tone.

"I see. And what is –" she paused to inhale slowly through her teeth – "_gin_?"

The waitress looked around, as though hoping desperately that the cavalry were on the way, and Blaise helped her out. "It's a Muggle drink. I think you'd like a gimlet."

"Actually, Blaise, I don't think that I would like a Muggle drink, but I do so appreciate your suggestion that I erode my tongue with poison crafted by animals," she said. The waitress muttered something about giving them more time and left in a hurry.

Blaise narrowed his eyes at Pansy. "It's been a while since you've spent much time in the country, hasn't it?"

"It has, and it's simply dreadful to be back," she said. "This is so typical of England, always wanting to water down the culture and throw the finer things out the window. There's no need for the upper class to mix with plebeians. When did it become fashionable to act like a sewer rat?"

Draco felt his patience snap, as it occasionally did with this woman. For the first time he could name a few specific Muggles, and Ray Bradbury was anything but a sewer rat.

"That's enough, Pansy," he said, with just enough hard consonants to show her he meant it. "I've known you for a long time, and my highly-informed assessment is that you are not that great. If you hate this country so bloody much, you could do everyone a favour by leaving and never coming back."

They were all silent for a long moment, until the tension grew so unbearable that Pansy had to speak.

"You know," she said, "I don't know why anyone calls you a coward. You're the only one who ever stands up to me."

His anger faded: acknowledging a truth was the closest Pansy ever came to an apology, and that was good enough for him. This was their routine. Their triangular friendship situation was kept strong through checks and balances: Draco kept Pansy in line, Pansy watched Blaise, and Blaise took care of Draco. Pansy also sniped at Draco, but she was usually far worse to Blaise. He shuddered to think what would happen if one leg of the triangle fell off for good. The remaining two would probably turn into deranged alcoholics and possibly duel to the death, because that might suddenly seem like a good idea. Even worse, if they lost Pansy, he and Blaise might get so nice that they'd end up… _hugging_. He tried to gag as inconspicuously as possible, so his friends wouldn't ask what he was thinking. He didn't want to say it out loud.

When the waitress returned, Blaise and Draco both asked for a gin & tonic. Pansy ordered a gimlet, which made Draco smile.

Blaise updated them about his family and how much richer he was getting every day at work, and Draco told them about the Raven. Pansy observed him silently while sipping her drink, which she seemed to enjoy very much; he was pleasantly surprised that she didn't ask why he'd gotten a job. He should have been wary, though, because a Pansy not talking was a Pansy thinking, which could be very dangerous.

"So, Draco, who is she?" she asked, with no regard for the current topic of conversation.

"Who?"

"That woman you keep thinking about." He could tell she was very pleased with herself and with whatever great secret she seemed to believe she'd sussed out.

Blaise cut in before he could respond. "Of course! I knew there was something off about Malfoy, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it," he said, grinning at Pansy.

"That doesn't surprise me," she said, moving her eyes briefly from Draco. "You are remarkably obtuse."

As he always did in these situations, Draco fantasised about the day when Pansy would be wrong about something like this. It hadn't happened yet, but it was inevitable, and it was going to be great. However, that day was not today. He was pretty firmly in denial about what was going on, but he had suspected that something was.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said. "I'm not seeing anyone."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. Would you say that's the problem?"

"No, the problem is that I don't know who you're talking about," he said. "I really don't, Pansy. Don't give me that look."

She sighed, light on the drama this time but with just enough disdain. Pansy could give sighing lessons. "Well, you'll figure it out. You aren't the dumbest person at this table."

"What the fuck? He clearly is," said Blaise.

The moment passed, and Pansy changed the subject to talk about her trip. Draco wouldn't have been listening to her ramble about Colombian coffee anyway, but in this particular case he was ignoring her to do some thinking.

Pansy could spot what she liked to call "pathetic love-puppy eyes" from a kilometre away, which meant that Draco had probably been making those. In fact, though, his mind had been on literature. He'd been thinking about the books that Hermione had – the books that – he kept thinking about – okay, start over.

He kept thinking about the Muggle books he had obtained, and how much he was looking forward to starting the new one that Hermione – no, try again.

He was looking forward to starting the new book that he now possessed. _So, there_, thought Draco. He wasn't thinking about any woman, especially not someone so completely off-limits that he would never have weird, unreciprocated feelings about her, such as – never mind.

He stumbled home after the pub closed and listened to his CD for the first time, and Bianca was right: it was fun.


	8. Sweet

**Chapter Eight: Sweet**

Draco was getting really sick and tired of being wrong about everything. He'd been wrong about Muggle music, wrong about Muggle books, and wrong about people.

They just weren't doing what he expected them to do. For example, it had been a whole week since Hermione had come to the Raven, and he'd been going out of his head trying to figure out why. This was particularly challenging because every time he realised he was thinking about her, he had to stop. He'd finished all his books, and he had come to grips with the fact that he really liked them all, even (especially) the happy one.

He'd also been listening to his CD constantly, and he still wasn't bored with it. Hermione was right again about the last song, which had quickly become his favourite. Maybe he would tell her so if he ever saw her again, which was unlikely. No, Draco would have to find a new witch to be confused about, and that was unfortunate: he'd already done all the work of arranging his Hermione Confusion into an organised table of specific questions, filed alphabetically and cross-referenced.

To top it all off, Draco's least-favourite holiday was here again: Phoenix Day. On the bright side, he'd instructed a house-elf to dispose of the _Daily Prophet_ before he could see it, so at least he hadn't been rudely confronted with Harry Potter's face while he was trying to eat his breakfast. That was the only thing on the bright side.

The anxiety was rising in his chest as he looked through the closet for something to wear to Maggie's party. He decided to break in his new jeans and pair them with a colourful shirt since he was supposed to dress casually, but he still wore black robes so it wouldn't look like he was trying too hard. At quarter after six – fashionably late – he took the Floo to Maggie's house.

In the drawing room, he was immediately struck by one thing: _cats._ There were real cats, pictures of cats, and sculptures of cats, all watching him with eerie glowing eyes. The second thing he noticed was the noise level – Bianca said this would be an intimate gathering, but it didn't sound like one. Before he could start to worry, Maggie came to greet him.

"Draco!" she said, holding out her arms. He accepted the hug stiffly. "I'm so glad you made it. We were just getting ready to serve dinner – it should be done in about fifteen minutes, so come and meet everybody."

She led him into her kitchen, where the cat décor was replaced by an equally informal farm theme, with a rooster-shaped cookie jar sitting on the gingham table cloth. He'd never been in a house that was decorated like this, and he realised that everything had probably been hand-chosen by Maggie and might never be thrown away. In the strangest way, he would have felt a hundred times worse about breaking that hideous ceramic rooster than if he were to knock over the most beautiful antique vase in his home.

The crowd was visible now, and it was just as he had feared: through the window he could see at least twenty people milling around a large tent in the backyard, plus four more cooking in the cramped kitchen. Bianca noticed him and called a greeting, and he gave a polite nod. He was in over his head.

He shook hands first with Maggie's husband, Cecil, who was adding dollops of cream to a tray of pastries. The older man greeted him kindly, but he seemed more serious and reserved than his wife. She introduced her two sisters next, Teresa and Olympia. Olympia appeared to be the oldest, with greying hair and bony hands; Teresa looked younger than Maggie, but otherwise there was a clear family resemblance. Draco tried to be nice, but he didn't like this. He wasn't used to it. Cecil went back to his desserts while Maggie's sisters began to pepper him with questions about his job.

"Do you have any customers yet?" Olympia asked, after he'd given them the overview. Everyone reacted differently: Teresa lowered her eyes to concentrate on the fruit she was cutting, Bianca gave her elder aunt a reproachful look, and Maggie turned to Draco with a pleading expression.

"Yes, it's very busy," he said. It was stretching the truth, but he was feeling loyal, which was a funny feeling. He was worried that he might start saying dumb things if it continued, but he'd worry about that later.

Olympia pursed her lips. "I was surprised when my sister told me she was hiring," she commented, "considering the profit margin I've seen. It's good that they're making enough money to pay an extra employee." She smiled at Draco with little warmth. Maggie seemed to be trying to make herself disappear, but Bianca had stopped cooking to focus on the conversation.

"He's not an extra employee," she said, patient with a slight edge, and Draco was certain they'd had this talk before. "I'm going to be taking time off when the baby comes, and we'll need someone to take over my shifts. The coffee shop is doing fine."

"Well, that's good. I'm relieved to hear that." Draco didn't miss the implication that Olympia had most firmly expected otherwise. Maggie tapped his elbow and steered him out onto the deck.

"I'm sorry my big sister put you on the spot like that," she said as soon as he closed the door behind them. "She didn't think it was a good idea for me to start a coffee shop because she thinks I'm too old, but she's the one who's _old_." She seemed to realise what she'd said and laughed nervously. "I mean, you're never too old to do what makes you happy," she added.

"What does she do?" he asked.

"She's an attorney."

"Does it make her happy?"

"Yes, but sometimes you can't tell," she said with a note of finality. "Come on – let's go meet some of the other guests."

She began to coax him toward the tented area, and he dug in his heels, wondering if Bianca had deliberately understated the guest list to trick him. He was almost certain that she had done this on purpose to make him miserable and ruin his holiday. Everyone was always out to get Draco – _for no reason!_

Caught in a haze of self-pity, he'd been moving so slowly that Maggie kept having to pause and wait for him. He slowed down some more, even though they were still several metres away from the party, and she stopped walking.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing. Are you nervous to meet all these new people?" He gave a scornful laugh, as though that were the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. It wasn't very convincing. "I think you know some of them already." That was even worse. "And you know who's here?" He shook his head. "Hermione!" Last nail, meet coffin.

"Shouldn't she be with Harry Potter or something?" he asked tactlessly.

Maggie gave him a curious look when he said "Harry Potter," probably because no one else except Draco spoke the name like spitting out hot coals. "From what she's told me, Harry Potter doesn't like to make a big deal out of Phoenix Day. She said that this year, he's gone off on a trip with his family, and he hasn't even told anyone where he's going. I think today reminds him of some traumatic events," she said.

"I'm sure it does. Good thing none of the rest of us had a bad day nine years ago, or we'd have to take time away from showering Potter with our sympathy and condolences and worry about something else for once," he said, staring at the ground, and Maggie fell silent. He decided he might as well just let it all out and finish his tantrum, then go home and carry on with his personal Phoenix Day tradition, then probably get fired. "Look, it's really obvious that I shouldn't be here. The fact that you invited me at all proves you know nothing about me. I wasn't some Gryffindor white knight in the War – I was upset after the final battle because my favourite _Death Eaters_ died. I mean, you have to know why I wear long sleeves every day! Their side lost people, too, but at least everyone cares about that," he said desperately. "No one ever gave half a shit that I lost my best friend and most of my family. It's not like I wanted the Dark Lord to win. I just wanted it to be over. And I'm sorry to waste your time, but I wish I hadn't come," he concluded. Anger was good, he thought. Anger was more useful than most emotions and a lot less embarrassing.

Maggie wasn't angry, though. "I think we should go inside and finish this conversation," she said. "We're on the lawn."

So they were, but Draco wasn't in the mood for a tearful confession session in the living room, surrounded by cats. "No, I was finished anyway. Enjoy your holiday," he said, turning to leave.

"Draco Malfoy." She was using her strictest maternal tone, and he stopped in his tracks. She moved very close to him and invaded his personal space, but something in her eyes kept him from taking a step back. "You need to stop trying to give up," she continued in a low voice. "If you think I didn't know all that about you, you're underestimating me again. I went to all the trouble of telling the guests who knew you to behave themselves and give you another chance, and you won't even pay them the same courtesy. Now, if you leave here today without talking to anybody, you will not be welcome in my coffee shop ever again."

It wasn't the threat that did it. In fact, it was the opposite: Maggie wasn't a very good liar, and he could tell she was bluffing. It reminded him of how Blaise had been unable to avoid him for two weeks after promising to do so indefinitely – sure, everyone thought they wanted no more Malfoy. Little did they know, they all secretly loved him.

That wasn't exactly accurate, but if Maggie was bluffing, then she wasn't trying to get rid of him. She had actually gone round to everyone and preemptively stood up for him, even though a quick survey of the crowd revealed Neville Longbottom.

He couldn't help but smirk with schadenfreude as he thought about the story of Longbottom's life. He'd been thrust into the world as a near-squib magical catastrophe, and nearly everything had gone wrong for him until today, when he thought he was finally going to catch a break, throw back a few drinks, and enjoy the celebration. Then, the hostess had to go and insist that he be nice to Draco Malfoy. It really didn't get much worse than that.

"What are you smiling about?" she demanded. "Do you think this is funny?"

"You told Neville Longbottom he had to be nice to me. What did he say?"

She pressed her lips together. "He agreed to do his best if you did."

Draco knew there'd been more to the conversation than that, but he decided to drop the subject because Maggie was still looking so irritated. "Are you my friend?" he asked instead, apropos of nothing. He had to know for sure.

"I'm trying to be. What about you? Are you a friend to me?" He nodded cautiously. "Then show me you trust me, just a little bit. I want you to be here, and if anyone disagrees with that, they can deal with me. I'll show them where to file their complaints," she said, lifting her chin.

What she'd said was a bit funny, but it definitely wasn't funny enough to laugh as long as Draco did or quite so loudly. Once he'd started laughing, he couldn't stop – friend number three! He'd done it!

Maggie stared at his strange display. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm much better than I was thirty seconds ago," he enthused.

"So, you're staying?"

"Only if you admit that you will be my friend either way," he said, feeling bold.

She sighed and scrunched up her face. "Yes, I will still be your friend even if you leave, but I will be very disappointed in you," she said, poking her index finger into his chest.

"I'm staying," he said.

She relaxed at that, but she still carried a serious demeanor. "I know you've had a hard time of it – just as hard as anybody in that tent," she said. "Maybe it was cowardly of us, but we hid in Italy with my dad's family during the War. Sometimes, you need an outside perspective like that to really understand both sides. It'll take time, but I think they'll all learn to accept you if you could just stop pretending you don't want them to."

Draco nodded, opting not to respond. In truth, he'd never thought about whether he was pretending or wanting anything; he'd been framing himself as the bad guy for so long that he'd never even considered trying to win anyone's acceptance. It was easier to just keep doing what he'd always done and keep responding to the same feedback he'd gotten since his first year: he was a prick, he was superficial and vain, and he didn't care about anyone but himself. Now, those opinions were up for review: Maggie wouldn't like him if that were an accurate representation of his personality.

His new friend began to head for the crowd again. He tried to keep pace with her this time, so they could at least present a united front. As they reached the entrance to the tent, Bianca emerged from the house to announce that dinner was ready. Maggie invited Draco to sit next to her at one of the two long tables, a gesture for which he was extremely grateful. A tall and lanky man with oversized glasses sat at his other side and introduced himself as Bianca's husband, Will. Draco shook his hand, and Will struck up a conversation about Muggle music as the table filled out – talking to Will wasn't too bad, it turned out, because he didn't seem to care at all if Draco didn't say anything.

He craned his neck to look at the other table, where Hermione and Neville were sitting with the blonde Hufflepuff from the Leaky Cauldron, who appeared to be romantically involved with Neville. Typical. They probably had a litter of half-witted children waiting for them at home, where a babysitter was trying desperately to prevent their accidental deaths. They probably couldn't live within thirty kilometres of a mineshaft or any type of potions storage facility. Not that it was any of his business, but Draco couldn't figure out why Hermione was sitting with them when there had been plenty of other seats available.

The meal went surprisingly well after he'd gotten over himself, and Draco even managed to contribute to the conversation a few times when the topic turned to Quidditch. He liked Will even more after they'd discovered their shared hatred for the Chudley Cannons. There was plenty of wine, and Draco was a bit giddy by the end.

Most of the family took their leave after dinner, prompting a lengthy and tedious ritual in which fifteen people all had to hug each other. The Longbottoms said their goodbyes as well, but Hermione walked with Bianca to a different area of the large yard. The sun was low in the sky, and it was going to be a clear night. Draco made to head up to the house, but Will pulled him aside.

"Taking off, Drake?" he asked. Draco was apprehensive about his new nickname, coined shortly after their introduction. Will felt that "Drake" was a much better name, and he talked so quickly that more than one syllable was inconvenient – he called his wife "Bee," and Maggie was "Meg." Will had asked Draco if it was "cool" to shorten his name, and he hadn't wanted to argue, and now the deed was done.

"I don't know, isn't the party over?"

"No, mate, it's just getting started. The older crowd has to go to bed early, but a few of us are going to make a fire and play some music."

"All right," he said. That didn't sound too bad. He allowed himself to be led back through the tent, where Will picked up a large and awkwardly-shaped black case. "What's in there?"

"Oh, I forgot. You've never seen a guitar before, have you?" Draco shook his head. He didn't even know what that was. "I'll show you when we get there. I've been playing since I was a kid, and there's nothing like it." From where they were walking, Draco could already see a fire going in a pit surrounded by six chairs. Will continued to talk about guitars until they reached their destination, giving him enough context to surmise that it was a Muggle instrument.

Most of the chairs were already occupied, and Draco eyed an empty one suspiciously. It was no more than a thin metal frame with canvas material stretched across it, and it didn't seem sturdy, but he sat anyway. Will took the chair between him and another man who was holding hands with a pretty witch on his other side.

Will indicated each one with a wave of his hand as he introduced them. "This is my baby brother, Tom, and his girlfriend, Gwen. Tom and Gwen, this is my new friend, Drake."

Draco was pretty sure he would have said that about anyone, but it still counted. That made four friends, and he hadn't even been trying this time. He was a beautiful social butterfly, emerging from his cocoon to claim his destiny: someday soon, he'd have even more friends than he could count on one hand.

"Good to meet you," said Tom. Gwen echoed the sentiment as Bianca and Hermione joined the circle.

"We brought some more kindling," said Hermione, and Draco wondered what that was.

"And more wine," added Bianca. She sat next to Draco and placed a wicker box on the ground, stocked with a bottle and five glasses. "It's good wine, too. I wish I could have some."

"This won't work," said Will, motioning to Draco and his wife. "Switch places, you two. We have to keep the band together." Draco stood awkwardly and allowed Bianca to take his chair, which put him next to Hermione. He realised that they were the only non-couple in the circle, but that wasn't really relevant. "That's much better. Now, what would you like to sing, Bee?"

He opened his black case and brushed has hands over a curved wooden object with a row of delicate strings stretched down the length of it. Bianca took in the circle as she thought. "Hermione's here, so we've got to do 'Sweet Jane.'"

"Yes, of course." He cradled the guitar in his lap like a child and relaxed his free hand near the hole in its hollow body.

Bianca turned to Draco. "The first time Hermione met Will, she requested that song, and he's been calling her Jane ever since."

"'Hermione' is hard to say and even harder to shorten – no offense, Jane – so I had to come up with something as soon as possible."

Hermione laughed beside him. She was a bit tipsy, if her flushed cheeks and giggling were any indication, and so was he. "I told you it wouldn't catch on," she said.

"And I told you I didn't care," Will said. "Let's make this a good one, love," he added to Bianca. "Drake's never heard live Muggle music before."

"Drake?" Hermione repeated, and he realised he was still looking at her. He shrugged and gestured vaguely in Will's direction. It was strange to see her now after a week of no-shows, and he was out of practice. "I see – the serial nicknamer strikes again. Maybe I'll start using it, too."

"That would be a bit of a leap, considering you won't even use my given name," he said. "And if you call me Drake, I'll have to start calling you Jane."

"Drake," she tried stubbornly, cringing as her mouth shaped the foreign name.

"Jane," he fired back. They shared their confusion for a second, and then she shook her head.

"No, that was really weird. I'm going back to Malfoy."

"You aren't a 'Jane' anyway," he added dismissively, although he wasn't quite sure what he meant by it. She was appropriately offended, though.

"You don't even know me. I might be," she defended. "Hang on, I don't even know what you're talking about."

Will brushed his fingertips across the strings to produce a swelling rush of sound. "I see what you mean about those two," he told his wife, waggling his eyebrows. His habits were annoying, Draco decided.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. He could make out Hermione's voice questioning the remark in kind, but the music drowned their words as Bianca began to sing.

_Anyone who's ever had a heart wouldn't turn around and break it_

She had a nice voice, he thought – strong and throaty and smooth. It was the sort of voice that seemed to vibrate on the air and come from every direction at once.

_And anyone who's ever played a part wouldn't turn around and hate it_

Will joined in to harmonise, and Draco was enthralled. They sounded exactly as two people should sound after having long since decided they'd rather be one.

_Heavenly wine and roses seem to whisper to me when you smile_

Hearing the music so close tugged at some secret spot near his spine and pulled it forward through the centre of his chest.

_Sweet Jane_

The evening faded and collapsed, and there was nothing but the sound until it was over.

_Sweet, sweet Jane*_

"Wow," he breathed into the silence, once reality had reappeared. "That was really good."

"Thanks," said Will, taking a mock bow in his seat. "How about you two open the wine, and we'll all get to know each other a little better?"

Draco blinked rapidly to clear his head. Hermione was already lifting the wicker box from its position between them on the grass. She handed the bottle to Draco, who opened it with his wand, and then she held each glass for him to fill and pass around the circle.

"So, Jane," Will began, "what have you been up to these past few weeks?" Draco wanted to know that, too, and he was glad someone else had asked.

"I've been busy researching my new book, but I can't really talk about it yet. Let's just say it isn't something the Ministry will want people to read, but that's too bad. My name still sells well enough that the publishing houses wouldn't turn me away," she said.

"That's right, expose those bastards for what they really are," Gwen added bitterly. "My dad was in that new department with you – Remington Humbert, if you knew him. Then, less than two weeks later, they'd already dissolved the whole thing and chucked all those people out into the cold. I couldn't believe they would be so obvious about it. I thought Shacklebolt was going to be different."

"He used to be," Hermione said. "But over time, he just started yielding more and more to pressure from the department heads – the ancient ones who've been there since before the First War. They don't understand why they should have to change anything. Now, every time one of them comes to him with a new plan to benefit themselves at everyone else's expense, he just signs the papers like he doesn't care. I did meet your dad, by the way. Do you think he'd talk to me about it if I owled him? It'll all be anonymous, of course."

"Oh, I'm sure he'd have quite a bit to say. You should definitely contact him."

While the rest of the group went on about politics, Draco kept his mouth shut and resolved to inform himself about it in the near future. This may have been a bad time to lose his grip on the news, but he couldn't help it. It was just so boring and depressing, and it seemed pointless to take an hour out of each bad day to remind himself that things were even worse than he thought. Finally, Will got antsy in the face of so much serious discussion, and he set down his wine glass and strummed his guitar.

"This is all very exciting, but I think it's a bit late to be riling ourselves up about the state of the nation. How about we play another song?"

"That's a good idea," Bianca said, "especially since you lot are getting a bit tipsy for that kind of talk, from where I'm sitting."

"You're just jealous because you can't drink," Will began. At the look on her face, he hastily added: "Not that I don't appreciate it. Now, what's your favourite song on that CD, Drake?"

"Do you know 'Crimson and Clover'?" he asked.

"Do I know 'Crimson and Clover,' this bloke asks. Well, let's see if I do." His hands were already in motion. As he played, the familiar chords came to life in a way they never had before.

"_Now, I don't hardly know her,_" Bianca sang, swaying in time. "_But I think I could love her._"**

A light to his left caught his attention, and he turned to see Hermione crafting a string of fairy lights above their heads in the gathering darkness. She furrowed her brow in concentration as she muttered the spell, moving her small hand in slow circles. And then, like falling through the ice on a frozen lake, he knew which woman Pansy meant at the pub. He watched the tiny lights spring from nothing until the circle was complete, and he moved his gaze to her face. She met his eyes suspiciously, and he looked away.

Everyone else in the circle got a turn to choose a song after that, and Draco hadn't heard any of them before, which wasn't surprising. He found himself taking many of the lyrics a bit too personally, and everyone knew relating to love songs was the first symptom of being a total lovesick prat. He'd had a fine time, but this evening couldn't be over soon enough – who knew how many more obvious tells he'd give off about his unfortunate condition? He might as well give a statement to the _Prophet_: "I am Draco Malfoy, and it has recently come to my attention that I may have, through no fault of my own, accidentally started to fancy –"

He couldn't even think it. After making his announcement, he could mercifully end his own life in a move that would surprise no one, seeing as everyone already thought he was a miserable suicide case. When the song finally ended, he was ready to make a speedy escape.

"It's getting late," he said, looking at things that weren't Hermione. "I should be getting home."

Will was disappointed. "Are you sure you can't stay? We're just getting started."

"Not tonight," he said. "Another time."

Will nodded. "I'll owl you soon – you should come out to the pub with us."

"I'll see you out," said Bianca. She stood, and together they set out across the dark yard. "I'm glad you came tonight. Did you have a good time?"

"Yes. Thank you for the invitation," he said. It turned out that "thank you" wasn't hard to say when he meant it.

She talked about her husband for the rest of the walk, evidently pleased that the two blokes had hit it off, and she mentioned that Will had his own column in the _Prophet_ where he reviewed Muggle music. They reached the drawing room, where two fat cats were still lounging on the chairs, but Draco had one more issue to address before he went home. "Will said he would have you bring me some CDs. Could you make sure he sends one that has 'Sweet Jane'?"

Bianca smiled knowingly, which was inappropriate considering she had absolutely no right to know anything at all. "She is sweet, isn't she?"

"Good night," he said, but he didn't mean it that time. If she was going to make comments like that, then he hoped her night was sub-par. He didn't bother waiting for her response as he stepped into the Floo.

He drank more wine at home, just to make sure he couldn't think even one more stupid thought before passing out.

* * *

* Reed, Lou. "Sweet Jane." _1969: The Velvet Underground Live. _Mercury Records, 1974.

** Tommy James and the Shondells. "Crimson and Clover." _Crimson and Clover_. Roulette, 1968.


	9. Such People

**Chapter Nine: Such People**

There had been a time many years ago when Draco used to want things he couldn't have on the regular – nearly all the time – but that was before he'd learned that it was better to prevent problems than to fix them. Since then, he had taught himself to want for things within his grasp, to grasp them quickly, and to hang on long after the boredom set in so that he could squeeze out every last lingering drop of satisfaction from each mundane pursuit.

He was doing it again, though. He'd been reading sad books and listening to love songs, and along the way he'd absorbed that glorious dysphoria: the familiar need for something not only better but also more important.

That was why he was so disappointed the next day when Hermione still didn't come. He didn't think she _was_ that better thing, but she seemed to resemble it in some way. He wasn't sure exactly what he wanted yet, but when he found it, he had this strange feeling that she would be there, too. That was the closest he could come to explaining it.

He'd been hoping for something else to think about, and his wish was granted that night when something strange happened. The house-elf he'd spoken with several months ago approached him after work, wringing her tiny hands and avoiding eye contact. He was thinking she'd probably broken something expensive, but he didn't really care about that. Nothing in the manor had any kind of sentimental value, and they had plenty of money to replace it.

"Master Draco," she said, "Gully is sorry to bother you, but she has a question."

"What is it?"

"Gully isn't supposed to tell you her question, but you is Master, too. If you force Gully, she has to tell the question." She looked at his eyes for the first time to make sure he understood her meaning.

"I command you to ask your question," he said rather uncertainly, and she set off rambling.

"Gully is pleased to answer your command, Master. A long time ago, when the Great Master's followers was living in our house, house-elves was told by the Great Master to obey them in a special order." She was trembling now, probably at the memory of the Dark Lord, and she spoke so quietly that Draco had to crouch down to hear what she was saying. "We was to answer to the Great Master, then Mistress Bellatrix, then Master Lucius, then Mistress Narcissa, then the other followers, and then Master Draco."

She waited for confirmation, and he nodded. He'd been aware of this chain of command – it applied to more than just house-elves. "Those other people is dead now, but some elves still has old orders that we was told never to break and never to tell. But Master Draco is nice to elves, and if he says that Gully has to, she will tell Master Draco the orders."

He was getting sick of all the formalities, but they were probably the only thing keeping Gully from running to bash her head against a wall mid-sentence. She was still technically doing wrong, but at least she had someone's permission. "Yes, Gully," he said. "You must tell me all of your orders."

Her large head bounced up and down. "If Master Draco says so. Years and years ago, the Great Master is giving a box to Gully, and Great Master says that she must hide it in a special place and not tell anybody where it is. The box is to stay in the spot forever and ever and not move unless Great Master says to fetch it. The other Masters knows there was a box, but Great Master does not ever want them to look in it."

Draco had no idea what she was talking about, which wasn't exactly a shock – he was kept pretty firmly out of the loop when it came to Death Eater shenanigans. This item must have been massively important, though, if even Bellatrix couldn't touch it.

"And now Gully has a problem," she continued. "Master Lucius has talked to her from his holiday, and he is wanting Gully to get the box from the special hiding place and put it in his study, and then he is going to look in the box. Master Lucius is not supposed to be doing this, and neither is Gully. Not only is Gully breaking orders if she does it, but she is also helping Master Lucius to break orders from his Master, and he is not allowed to do that."

She said the last part softly, and Draco realised that she was actually sharing her personal opinion: she didn't think it was fair that such a cruel master as his father should be able to turn around and disobey his own master. He wondered for the first time if the elves had taken a certain joy in seeing Lucius Malfoy brought low before the Dark Lord and punished for even his most minor mistakes, just as they had been for decades.

More importantly, he wondered why his father suddenly wanted that box after all these years. Most of the Dark Lord's personal effects were useless curiosities at this point, completely irrelevant now that his web of power had dissolved. He reckoned that if his father wanted this one the most, then it was in everyone's best interest to keep it away from him.

"What would you say if Master Draco said he needed to look in the box?" he asked.

"Gully told you her problem, and now she is telling you her question: if a Master is dead, does elves still have to follow his orders?"

"No."

"Then Gully has another question. Great Master is the one who is giving us the orders of who to listen to first, and Great Master is dead now. Who is the elves listening to first?" she asked pointedly.

Draco was impressed: his house-elf had planned this whole conversation to make sure that Lucius got put in his place, while simultaneously restructuring the hierarchy of power in the household. His father, taking his power for granted as usual, must have forgotten to remind the elves that he was their primary master after the Dark Lord fell. If there were a Hogwarts for house-elves, he was pretty sure she'd be in Slytherin.

Of course, one particularly important lesson that Draco had learned from the interviews in Hermione's book was that house-elves were capable of equally fierce loyalty and resentment. When they hated their masters, they only obeyed commands exactly as stated and constantly searched for loopholes in careless phrasing. On the other hand, loyal house-elves would literally lay down their lives if their masters so much as implied that it might be helpful.

He thought of Bellatrix's sickeningly sweet treatment of that horrible Kreacher, who wouldn't even spare a glance to anyone but his true Mistress. Lucius had always been so jealous that his sister-in-law was the Dark Lord's favourite, but that was exactly the kind of knowledge she had that he lacked. Rule number one of staying in power: don't underestimate your inferiors.

Draco was pleased to find that he was now in command of the second kind of house-elves, and he was glad he'd gone to the trouble of restocking their game cabinet. Apparently, all it took was a little leniency and a fancy mancala set to make twenty elfin friends for life (not that they exactly counted toward the friend tally).

"I'm your first master now," he said, and Gully slowed her fidgeting.

"Then we is going to answer to you before Master Lucius. Is Gully having to bring him the box?"

Unfortunately, there was no way to get out of that one. "Yes. If you don't bring it, he'll know something's going on – don't tell him about this conversation." Gully shook her head vigorously, as though she would never have considered such a thing. "Bring it to me first, and then later you can take it to his study."

Gully retrieved it and placed it at his feet; it appeared to be a parchment box, rectangular and thin. He studied it and cast a few Curse-Finding Charms. As he could have predicted, no one could so much as touch the box without first disarming the spells, and he didn't feel like trying to reverse the Dark Lord's handiwork. Something was off, though: he'd just watched Gully carry it in.

"Did you do anything special before you picked this up?" he asked.

"Gully did not dilly-dally, Master," she said, whipping her head from side to side. "She went straight down to the hiding place and –"

"No, no," he said, cutting her off, "that's not what I meant. Did you use your magic on the box, or did you just pick it up?"

"Gully doesn't use magic on the box because she is not being told to."

He recast the charm to reveal once more the shimmering web of Dark magic wrapped around the box. "All right, I want you to pick it up again."

She did, and the curse didn't react at all, which made sense. The Dark Lord was forcing the house-elves to take care of this box, so they had to be able to touch it. He worried his lip, thinking carefully; he didn't have much time to open this box and decipher the contents before his father returned to secretly pick it up. _How dastardly_, he thought – good to see his father was still operating like the villain in a children's mystery novel.

"Did my father tell you when he was returning?"

"Master Lucius says tomorrow morning," she said, to Draco's relief. He would stay up all night if he had to, but he would probably be able to figure out this puzzle, especially since he already had an idea.

"Has a house-elf ever opened the box?" he asked. Gully started shaking her head so hard he feared for her neck, and he held up a hand to stop her. "All right, I get it. You have never disobeyed your orders. Good job," he said. His voice wasn't kind, but she still swelled with pride at the compliment. "Do you think the box would let you open it?"

She turned it around in her hands, and a gentle glow of elf magic spread from her fingers to encircle the parcel. "The box says that wizards who is not the Great Master will meet ill fates if they tries, but Gully is not a wizard."

"Yes, that's perfect. Will you open the box for Master Draco?"

"Yes, Master," she said. She placed it back on the floor, where she carefully undid the clasps and pulled back the lid to reveal a stack of documents. He still couldn't touch them, though.

"I know it's late, but will you help me with a big, important task?"

As he'd hoped, she was beside herself with excitement. "Oh, yes, Master Draco! Gully is so very happy to help Master with whatever he asks her to do!"

"Good. I need you to take out each piece of parchment in this box and duplicate it for me, then put them back exactly as they were."

She set to work immediately, while he paced around his living room – this was so typical. Nothing happened for the longest time, and then everything had to start at once.

Well, to be fair, all this stuff had already existed. Draco just wasn't paying any attention, because it didn't directly affect him until now. When Gully was finished, he picked up the hefty stack and placed it on his desk. He told her she'd done a good job again, just because it made her so happy, and she bowed very low and left him to his reading, taking the resealed box with her. He opened to the first section:

_The Role of the Ministry of Magic, with Summary of Key Players and Important Individuals_

_Bartemius Crouch Jr._

_1994_

It began with the younger Crouch's well-known plans for his fourth year at Hogwarts, including descriptions of Ministry officials and others that were relevant at the time. There was information on Barty Crouch Sr., Cornelius Fudge, and Albus Dumbledore, to name a few, and it was thorough. Most of the people who received attention in the first section were dead, so he skipped over the majority to arrive at the second document:

_The Continued Role of the Ministry of Magic_

_Aldous Yaxley_

_1997_

This section detailed plans for the Ministry take-over that same year. It talked about Rufus Scrimgeour, Pius Thicknesse, and a great many others, a large number of whom still worked for the Ministry. One name stood out in particular – John Dawlish.

Because of his role in watching Dumbledore at the time, there was a very detailed chapter on Dawlish, including information on his bathroom habits and sex life with his wife and a number of prostitutes and other women. There was a folder of photos that featured Dawlish performing a wide variety of acts with the women, some of whom were noted to be underage, and he closed it quickly and gagged a bit.

Reading further, he noticed that nearly all of the current department heads had a similar file of information and blackmail material. It was ten years old, but some of it was bad enough to still be devastating.

He turned to the final section:

_Death Eaters and Other Resources_

It was unsigned, but Draco soon guessed that this part was written by the Dark Lord himself. He tried to picture it in his mind: an ugly, half-snake bloke in long, flowing robes, pressing a quill thoughtfully to his nonexistent lips.

The phrasing was strange, with a certain tangible inhuman quality to the prose. When Yaxley and Crouch had written about the Ministry officials, there was a normal level of emotion to their observances; for example, Crouch's hatred for his father was evident. When the Dark Lord described each of his followers, informants, and pawns in turn, it was like reading documentation by a robot about its rock collection. The only exception was Bellatrix's chapter, which was more complimentary and included brief notes about her great beauty. Even still, those notes were less than poetic, and there was no feeling for her: it was just stated as fact that she was the best toy that the Dark Lord owned.

Lucius's section was just a laundry list of his failures, and Draco got one whole sentence fragment: _Son of Lucius, possible use unknown._

Dumbledore could have done better, he thought wildly. The man he'd tried to kill on the Dark Lord's orders could have probably come up with a nicer half-sentence about him, no problem.

He decided to think about the present instead, since the past was even more depressing than he'd originally thought.

Since everything was all happening at once, he could safely conclude that it was all related: the Ministry reorganization, Hermione's new book, and his father's sudden and pressing need for these documents. For the first time, he began to really wonder what exactly his father was out doing every day. He noticed that many names were repeated from the second document to the third: a number of the longest-standing Ministry employees were listed as informants or willing helpers. Some were kept on the Dark Lord's payroll; others, like Dawlish, were kept in line with blackmail.

If Draco had to arrange all the adjectives he knew in order of how well they described Lucius Malfoy, "innocent" in the colloquial sense wasn't very high on the list – in fact, it would probably fall somewhere between "crunchy" and "hexagonal." However, he had at least been under the impression that his father was "innocent" in the legal sense, meaning that there hadn't been enough evidence to convict him of a specific crime.

Now, he had to consider the possibility that there _had_ been plenty of evidence, hidden willingly by powerful allies. If all these events were as important as he feared, his father was at risk of landing back in Azkaban once the corruption was laid bare. He didn't want that for his mother.

He read the documents again, taking notes on the information that was still relevant or applied to living individuals. Then, he decided that he had to talk to Hermione Granger as soon as possible: she was in way over her head, which he could tell by the fact that he or anyone else even knew she was working on a book at all.

He had to help her for two reasons. One: she may be placing herself in danger by making these people angry without knowing the extent of their power. Two: he was sure there was also a second reason because that first one wasn't enough to also possibly endanger himself and take on all this extra work. He'd come up with one later.

On the bright side, his father wouldn't know how to open the box, and it probably wouldn't occur to him to ask for help from a house-elf. In fact, considering that the Dark Lord himself had cursed the box, it would probably take his father at least several days, if not weeks, to break into it. Draco had a head start.

* * *

The next morning, he went to the Raven as soon as it opened. Bianca was surprised to see him.

"Good morning," she said cautiously, noting his panicky appearance. "What's wrong?"

"Does Granger still come in every morning?" he asked, ignoring her question.

"Er, yes, she does. What are you so upset about?" she tried again.

"I can't tell you that, but I have to talk to Granger." He realised that Bianca was going to be very suspicious if he told her nothing at all, so he added: "It's about her book, and it's very important."

She raised her eyebrows. "I see. Well, she should be here soon – she usually wakes up early, drops by here, and then goes off to work on her research."

That was a relief; he didn't want to contact Hermione personally by owl or something. It would be awkward. "I'll wait," he said.

He made himself a strong coffee and sat by the door to commence his stakeout, successfully creeping out every customer who came in. Finally, one of them was Hermione, and he sprang from his chair and scared her even more than all the others.

"Malfoy!" She held a hand to her chest, recovering. "What are you doing here? Are you stalking me?" she asked, in disbelief.

"Technically, yes," he admitted, reconsidering the words as soon as they'd left his mouth. "I mean, no. I've just been waiting for you. I have to talk to you immediately about your book."

"Oh," she said, obviously confused. "What is it?"

"I have some important information, but I can't tell you more than that out here. You'll have to come into the back room with me."

"What's it about?"

It was sort of a good sign that she was being so difficult about things, but it was also frustrating. "I told you, I can't say that here," he said, glancing around at the nearby customers. There was no way to be certain about who knew somebody. "Just come with me, and if you don't care about what I have to say, you can leave. But you will."

Hermione didn't seem to believe him on that one, but she still agreed to go with him.

"Bianca, Granger and I are going to have a brief conversation in the back room. See to it that we are not disturbed," he instructed, as they walked past the counter.

"Er, okay," she said, and Draco could tell she was just itching to know the secret. That was too bad, though.

In fact, the best-case scenario was that Hermione would understand the dangers and decide not to publish her book at all. No one would ever have to know what was going on, and his father wouldn't have to go back to prison.

He could tell she was uncomfortable once they were alone in the back room, and she graduated to "alarmed" when he cast locking and silencing spells on the door. Her hand was on her wand, so at least she had some idea what it meant to be careful. To quote a Death Eater who fooled everyone:_ Constant vigilance_.

"Does the Ministry know you're writing that exposé?" he asked.

"I think so, but they can't do anything to stop me," she said.

It had been so utterly stupid of her to broadcast her plans that he just stared at her for a second in disbelief. She was supposed to be smart, he thought.

"No," he said. "They can't stop you from writing down what little you already know, but they can patch up the leak. Think like a dirty politician for a second."

"Okay," she said, but he could tell it hadn't sunk in all the way.

"No, this is important. Really get into the mindset. Some silly little girl has the nerve to tell you that you're running your department wrong, after you've been doing it for upwards of thirty years. That's how they see you, and any scraps of that person's grand plan that you happen to know were picked up completely by luck. Those men have been actively keeping you in the dark from day one."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, still not really listening.

"Because I know a lot more than you do, and you're going to make a fool of yourself publishing a useless book full of the same old accusations," he said. She might also be killed, but he had a feeling looking foolish was higher on her list of fears.

"What do you know?" she bit out at last.

Despite the barriers on the door, he didn't think it was a good idea talk about it there. They would have to find a safer location to go over his notes, but first he had to try something. "I can't tell you here. You'll need to come back to the manor and look at my notes."

She considered it, narrowing her eyes. "No, I'm not doing that. We have to meet somewhere else," she said.

"Good, I was beginning to think you were completely foolhardy," he said, offending her again.

"What? Was that a test?" she asked. "How am I supposed to know if you have any information at all?"

"Exactly! Finally, you're getting it," he said. "But really, I do. I've brought you a summary of a few of my lesser findings, and beyond that I have twenty more pages of detailed notes." He handed her the parchment. She was trying for a neutral expression as she read it, but her eyes widened ever so slightly a few times.

"I already know most of this," she said as she handed it back, "but some of it is… unexpected."

"Like I said, this is just the small stuff."

She touched her mouth and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Where can we go?" she asked at last.

He already had an idea for that, and he moved toward her, uncomfortably close. Silencing Charms are one thing, but when something's really important, the rule is that you still have to whisper it. As he breathed the location into her ear, he tried to figure out what that familiar scent was in her hair, but she nodded once and Disapparated as soon as he'd finished saying the words.

He was left standing alone, leaning over the spot where her shoulder used to be. He unlocked the door, removed the Silencing Charm, and Apparated to join her.


	10. Figure Ground Reversal

**Chapter Ten: Figure/Ground Reversal**

They landed in the dusty living room of the Shrieking Shack, where all of the furniture had been torn apart by violent unseen forces, and Draco felt a thrill of fear in his spine. He wasn't afraid of ghosts anymore, but he took a moment to check around anyway with his wand at the ready.

"You know this place isn't really haunted, right?"

"I don't care, either way," he said. "Of all the places you can Apparate, this is where we're least likely to be watched or disturbed. I made a list." He wasn't exaggerating – he'd even estimated percentages for the likelihood of visitors to each location. Somewhere along the way, Draco had become a pretty paranoid guy.

After checking the preexisting magical locks, he added a Silencing Charm. Then, he looked around carefully once more for good measure before producing the rolled-up stack of notes from a large pocket in his robes. He handed it to Hermione, and she sat on the floor and spread the pages in front of her.

"Is Shacklebolt in here?" she asked, after looking over the first page.

"There's some information on his work for the Order and the Ministry in '97, but no more than any other Auror, and he never cooperated with Death Eaters," he said. It was lucky that Shacklebolt was innocent, or Draco would have probably destroyed the evidence against him. Accusing the Minister of Magic of ten-year-old war crimes had two possible outcomes, and both of them sucked:

1. Shacklebolt would lose his job and someone would have to replace him, which would be a big fat mess, especially since half the department heads would get sacked on the same day. OR

2. It would be too little, too late, and he'd manage to worm out of it and keep his position. But hey, Draco, congratulations on the cool new enemy.

"Either they couldn't find more information about him, or they didn't know how important he was," he went on. "He must've been a pretty good Auror."

"He was exceptional," Hermione said.

When she was finished reading, she arranged the parchments into a neat stack and folded her hands in her lap. Draco was too jumpy to sit down, so he paced instead, cutting a wide path through the large room.

"First things first: who else knows about this?" she asked.

"No one who's still alive."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said. "My father is trying to access the original documents, but it will take him some time, and he doesn't know what's in them."

"Hm. And is there incontrovertible proof of this information?"

"Yes," he said, not wanting to elaborate. He felt uncomfortable reminding her of the fact that he'd been a Death Eater by displaying his extensive knowledge of the subject.

"Could you describe the nature of the proof?" she asked, and Draco almost wanted to laugh. Mainly as a nervous defense mechanism, but also because she was in complete Magical Law Enforcement mode, talking like a law text.

"Photos and signed statements," he said, and her eyes lit up and then narrowed with determination.

"Describe the photos," she instructed, and he looked away. He'd gotten himself into this, and now it was hard. It hit him how silly he'd been a month ago, thinking that he could achieve his simplistic goals and be happy. Here he was with more than three friends and a job, and all it had given him was an invitation to start living.

"There are different kinds," he said after a tense pause. "Most of the Ministry officials in here have their own blackmail folders, and that's just photos of them breaking the law or doing embarrassing things. The other kind is something I didn't know existed: there is one photo per year of service for everyone who ever helped the Dark Lord. For Death Eaters, there are pictures of them getting the Dark Mark and at meetings. For informants and sympathizers, there is a picture of each one meeting with Bellatrix, Pettigrew, or Yaxley. Those people are all dead, and the informants are never looking directly at the camera, so I'm pretty sure that means no living person knows that this evidence exists."

"That depends," Hermione argued. "Who was behind the camera?"

Oh. "I don't know," he admitted. "The Dark Lord wasn't much of a photographer, so that's out."

He thought about everything he'd noticed about the photos. Yaxley made unwavering eye contact, and Pettigrew looked scared but only regular scared – no more so than he had been full-time, back in the day. In her shots, Bellatrix winked at the camera and smiled rapturously with each and every one of her teeth, her head lolling carelessly from side to side.

His first thought was that the three representatives took turns shooting the photos that they weren't in, but that was highly unlikely in light of his aunt's theatrics: she wouldn't have smiled like that at either of the two men. On the other hand, he knew that there couldn't have just been one photographer. He surmised that each of them probably had a partner by whom they were always photographed, and the teams were not aware of one another's existence.

"In that case, we have to operate under the assumption that at least one other person knows about this," Hermione said. "Do you know who took the blackmail photos?"

"Those came from a lot of different sources."

"All right, so that's not helpful. Was there anything unusual about any of it? That includes any photos that you did not expect, any photos that you think should be there but aren't, or any that stood out in any way."

He wasn't going to tell her this, but there was something unusual about the shots that featured him: in each one, either his face or his Dark Mark was visible, but never both. In fact, the picture of him receiving the Dark Mark was so misleading that he wasn't sure how it had escaped the Dark Lord's notice – not only was it taken before the Dark Lord even touched his arm, but his face was obscured, and the image was blurred.

Blurry wizarding photographs were a strange sight: it was like watching an earthquake, with the ground trembling as the figures struggled to maintain their equilibrium. Anyway, the bad photos probably just meant that one of the photographers was a high-ranking Death Eater who didn't care about Draco and therefore wasn't trying very hard, which didn't narrow things down much. The whole thing was pointless, of course, because Draco _did_ have the Dark Mark. All anyone had to do was roll up his left sleeve and check.

Since the day he'd gotten it, Draco had spent his daily bath time staring at it and thinking the same thing: what a ridiculously impractical idea. There was no way to hide it, no way to turn it off, and no way to remove it. Also, they clearly hadn't sprung for a pro when it came to the design work. _Really?_, he'd asked his arm each morning. _Did we really have to make this thing so bloody cheesy?_ It had been fading steadily since the fall of the Dark Lord, but the branding spell had been so powerful that it was still visible from a couple of metres away.

"No. Nothing stood out," he lied.

"All right. I'll need to go over these notes more thoroughly, but I'm already seeing some connections with my previous research. May I make a copy of this?"

She absolutely could _not_ just whisk off with his information and use it to get herself killed and throw everything all out of balance. She had completely missed the point of this entire meeting. "No, I'm only showing you this so you know what you're up against. You can't use it."

She gave him that oh-so-charming "you're an idiot" look again. "Of course, I can. You thought that proving me right about even my most outlandish suspicions was the way to stop me?"

"Well, you don't have any proof," he said, bending to seize the pile of notes, and she stood and gaped at him.

"You know something, Malfoy? For a few seconds there, I thought maybe you cared about something. Would you believe it – I actually considered the possibility that you were coming forward with this because it was the right thing to do. How foolish of me," she said. Her eyes made him feel dirty.

He stared down at the manuscript in his hands, trying to block out what she was saying and remind himself that this was for her own good – for the greater good, even. She positioned herself directly in front of him, and at such close range he could feel the wild energy inside her body.

"If no one's going to help me, then I'll do this myself, but all of you cowards are going to be sorry if I fail. It's a good thing you read those books while you still could," she added, and he knew she was waiting for him to rise to the bait. He didn't want to, but he'd started thinking about Montag again: Montag and Granger, stepping bravely into the barren future at the end. He knew that if someone had done something in time, it would have been better.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Don't you_ ever_ read the news?" Well, not the real news, but he looked at the pictures and checked out the Quidditch section. He didn't have to respond, though, because she was already berating him again. "Don't you understand that something _really big_ is going on right now? How could you possibly have –"

"All right, I get it," he said through his teeth. "Say what you have to say, if it's so important."

"Where shall I start, nine years ago?" she asked, but he deliberately overlooked her sarcasm.

"Yes, actually – just the highlights, if you would."

She sighed and brushed her fingertips across her forehead, but now that she had his attention, she wasn't about to let her anger ruin the opportunity. "Fine," she snapped. "From the beginning: Voldemort fell. Or did you happen to hear about that part?" He chose to ignore that, staring silently at a spot over her left shoulder, and she started speaking again.

"The Order veterans secured important positions at the Ministry. We made impossible progress in two years, but then it began to get slower, and then it nearly stopped. Some people started feeling too comfortable about what we'd already achieved. Those people were less-than-coincidentally offered retirement packages or lengthy vacations, and they weren't even being replaced – their positions were being deleted. Everyone thought I was paranoid for seeing these things as suspicious.

"At that time, the Muggle culture invasion was just beginning. I noticed that some of the old-guard Ministry employees didn't like it, but for some reason they did nothing to stop it, and that puzzled me. More time went by, and I was tearing my hair out just trying to pass a single bloody piece of legislation." She paused, and then forged ahead.

"Six months ago, Harry's daughter was born, and he used that as an excuse to quit, but really the fight had gone out of him. Ron was already long gone – he was one of the first to jump on the buy-out packages. It hadn't seemed so bad with Harry around, but after he left, I looked around and saw that, with the exception of Shacklebolt, I was the only Order member left. It was insidious, what they did – they came to all these veterans who were still in pain, and they whispered in our ears that we didn't have to do this anymore. 'You're working so hard, child soldiers, why not take a break? You've earned it.'

"Finally, I got moved to my new position as head of the newly-minted Department of Internal Reforms, recommendation courtesy of John Dawlish. He told it to me like he was giving me this huge prize, and I have never been so insulted in my entire life. That they could think for one second that I didn't know exactly what they were up to –" She had to stop and collect herself again, taking a few deep breaths.

"Anyway, they dissolved that department almost immediately, and with it went every remaining person who worked to pass the early reforms. I suspect that they want to reverse them now, and they've already begun to campaign against the Muggle stuff. The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office is trying to remind people that Muggle books are simply curiosities from a primitive race, and they shouldn't be taken seriously. I don't think it will be long before they start falling off the shelves, especially books like the ones I gave you. And believe me, I haven't missed the irony in that," she said, with a humourless smile. "It's just so sad, you know? I was guilty of it, too – we all let ourselves get lulled into this false sense of security in those first few years. It was such a high after the bad times, and by the time we were finally coming down, they had everything in place to get rid of us."

She stopped speaking, and the silence stretched on. Almost everything she'd said had been news to Draco, and he certainly didn't have any words of encouragement. He'd been under the impression that Order members were supposed to be brave and true or some such nonsense. In reality, all it took was some flattery and a couple of days on the beach to distract them, just like anybody else.

On the other hand, Draco was aware that he'd never done anything worth doing in his life, and some part of him had allowed itself to be stirred by her speech. He saw his choices laid out before him, and he saw that important thing glimmering at arm's length, and he could either try to reach it or go back to bed. He wondered idly if he'd been born a coward or just raised to be one, but either way he was terrified.

"You can make a copy," he said, "but I'm hanging onto the photos and the rest of the documents. If you want to use any of the information, you'll have to ask me first."

She smiled then, and the worst part was over. She took the notes out of his hands and used her wand to duplicate them before handing back the originals. Then, she stood and looked at him the same way she used to do from the other side of the counter. "Thank you for showing this to me, Malfoy," she said. "I never thought I'd say this to you, but you're doing a good thing here. And I never thought I'd say this either, but you can help me if you want."

It seemed like she was going to stop talking, but then her mouth opened again, and some extra words spilled out of it rapidly: "Look, you told me all this stuff, so I might as well be fair and tell you something, too. Those times at the Raven, I was coming back to see you. Everybody else is so burnt out, and it's made them timid, but you still have some life left in you. It sounds really stupid now that I'm saying it out loud, but when we had that fight the first time I came in, that was what put the spark back in me. It's funny that you thought you were trying to stop me today, because I don't even know if I would've started if it wasn't for you. Maybe I'd just lie down like the rest of them."

"I don't think that's what would have happened," he said. "And I don't think I'm going to help you anymore, either."

"We'll see," she said. "This won't be your last chance to do something good, but it would be a fine place to start."

When he couldn't meet her eyes anymore, he Disapparated.

* * *

Back at the manor, Draco resumed his favourite activity once again: brooding.

He was in a very sticky mess now, and the farther he traced it back, the more it was Hermione's fault. For example, if he hadn't read her book, he never would have been nice to Gully, and Gully never would have told him that his father wanted that box, and no one would have even known about it until it was too late.

It was like she had a special kind of magic that allowed her to force her own righteousness into other people without their consent. Maybe she even gave him those stupid books on purpose to try and ignite his determination and long-dormant, hypothetical courage. Well, it wasn't going to work.

His plan to scare her into safety had failed, as he should have predicted, and now the objective was to get out of this unscathed, as quickly as possible. When she came for the photos, he'd give them to her, but he wasn't going to think about this anymore. Most importantly, he'd have to get over his awkward crush. It was in the back of his mind when he saw her now, challenging his ability to make grammatically-correct sentences, and that could get embarrassing. There was one more thing he had to check before he put this all out of his mind, though: Lucius's study.

After stepping cautiously into the room, he was relieved to note that the box was still there. He started moving closer to see if the curses had been worked on at all, when suddenly a small projectile launched itself at him from behind a bookshelf, and he dove for cover under his father's desk.

"Hello, Master," said the projectile, as though throwing himself under furniture were perfectly normal behavior for Draco. "Gully has been waiting and watching, and she is pleased to tell you that Master Lucius cannot open the box."

He let out the breath he'd been holding and crawled out from under the desk. "What did he try?"

"Master Lucius is casting spells on the box just like Master Draco did last night, but he is yelling so loudly that Gully's ears is still hurting. He is casting more and more spells, and getting more and more upset. Then, Master Lucius is banging his fists on the desk." As she spoke, Gully waved her own tiny fists around and stomped her feet in an imitation of one of his father's temper tantrums, and he thought it was pretty accurate. "Then, he is leaving, but Gully thinks that he will come back."

"I think so, too. You can trade off with the other elves, but make sure someone stays to watch the study. When my father makes another attempt, report it to me." He cast the Curse-Finding Charm on the box again, and the magical chains hadn't even budged, as he'd anticipated. When the Dark Lord cursed things, they tended to stay cursed.

Gully huddled behind the shelves again, and Draco took the opportunity to have some lunch prepared and to read the _Daily Prophet_ more carefully than usual. On the second page, it featured a lengthy opinion piece about the importance of magical culture. The writer expressed his concerns that wizards were being "distracted" by Muggle entertainment, especially music and books, and failing to watch out for their own world. He put the paper aside and scowled at his untouched food.

He knew this was related to everything else that was going on, but he'd already decided not to worry about it anymore. He'd done what he had to do, and now it was up to her. After all, he didn't have a history of caring about Muggles – that had been a very recent development, if it were even developing at all, and it should be easy for him to stop it in its tracks.

"I don't care about Muggles," he said aloud to his empty dining hall, just in case it helped. "And I don't care about Mudbloods."

It felt strange to say that word now, like maybe he should go and brush his teeth, and he took a drink of pumpkin juice and swished it around in his mouth. Grandpa Malfoy voiced his agreement from a nearby portrait, and Draco couldn't help but cringe. Abraxus Malfoy was the meanest person he'd ever met in his life. Of course, for someone like Draco there had to be different categories: Bellatrix was the most deranged, the Dark Lord was the most evil, Fenrir Greyback was the most dangerous, and his father was the most controlling. Grandpa Malfoy hadn't killed or tortured people or anything, to Draco's knowledge; he was just plain _mean_. He was a complete jerk to everyone, all the time, and Draco had always hated him, and now they were agreeing with each other about hating the same group of people.

From Draco's experiences as a person who didn't give a damn about anything, he'd learned that caring was the tricky one. Once you started, it was difficult to stop: you couldn't actively _not care_ about something, no matter how badly you wanted to, because that meant thinking about it, which was the first step on the road back to caring.

The only possible cure was to put it out of his mind permanently, but that meant that he would have to find enough other things to occupy his thoughts for the foreseeable future. He wondered if thinking about thinking about it counted as thinking about it, but then he realised that he was now thinking about thinking about thinking about it. This was getting out of hand.

He decided to distract himself by heading to the CD store before work; he'd finally started to tire of his first one, and it was time to buy more. He remembered his lunch, forced a few large bites into his mouth, and took the Floo to the Leaky Cauldron.

People were laughing and eating as usual at the pub, and the situation couldn't possibly be so bad when everyone was still so happy. Draco walked down the sunny street, enjoying the mild weather. He smiled at passerby, congratulating himself on his newfound likeable disposition, and most of them smiled back. Everything was going to be just fine, as long as he didn't go poking his nose into matters that weren't any of his business.

He arrived at the Basement and surveyed the store, but he didn't see any other customers around. Tremlett stepped out from behind the counter.

"Ah, I remember this'un! Good to see you, mate," he said, clapping Draco on the back.

"I wrote down the songs I liked best. Can you bring me more like these?" he asked, handing Tremlett his list.

"Of course, of course. You got good taste, my boy, very good taste."

Draco wandered aimlessly around the shop as he waited. Tremlett returned soon with a large stack, and they weren't homemade compilations: they were real CDs, with real artwork on the covers.

"That's quite a few," he said, as he took the pile.

"You'll want 'em," Tremlett assured him, which was probably true.

"All right, I'll take the whole lot," he said. They walked together to the counter, where Tremlett began to tally the price.

"I'd like to give a discount to a loyal customer such as yourself." Tremlett gave him a kind wink as he said this, but it didn't sit right for some reason.

"I've only been in here twice," he pointed out, and Tremlett looked uncomfortable for a second.

"I know," he recovered, chuckling softly, "but I can bet you can't stay away."

Draco looked around the empty store again. He reminded himself that it was none of his concern why the thriving business had lapsed. Maybe an aging rock star just wasn't cut out for running his own shop, he reasoned. "Yes." He pushed his unease aside. "I'll be back."

Tremlett seemed relieved, and he put the CDs in a bag.

On the way to work, he thought about blue skies, birds, and beautiful women; racing brooms, Quidditch, and letters by owl. There were just so many nice things to think about that weren't that other thing.

Bianca practically vaulted over the counter to pounce on him the second he walked in. "Hi, Draco!" she said, eyes wide. "What's going on with you today?"

"You know, this and that," he said with a shrug.

"Nothing exciting?" she pressed.

"No," he said. "Oh, actually I did buy some new music," he added, holding up the bag. She didn't bother to look at it.

"Are you sure there isn't anything really important happening that would have made you and Hermione disappear mysteriously from the back room for ten hours, without telling anyone where you were going?" she asked, louder this time as the frustration became evident in her tone.

"Oh, that," he said, as though he'd just remembered. "I thought I'd heard something important, but it turned out Granger already knew about it. In fact, it wasn't even true," he lied smoothly, and her eyes narrowed.

"I don't believe you," she said. He shrugged again – it was her prerogative to believe whatever she pleased, and this was even less her business than it was Draco's. She stared at him for another moment, trying to intimidate him into talking, but eventually she gave up. "Fine," she huffed. "You don't have to tell me what's going on, but I bet Hermione will."

Draco pretended to be very interested in cleaning some glasses behind the counter. He hoped she wasn't going to go digging around – the last thing he needed was to be responsible for dragging another person into the fray.

She left him alone then, with his whole shift ahead of him.


	11. No

**Chapter 11: No**

It was a long and boring shift, and nothing had come along to make Draco feel better. It was finally time to close, and he'd just finished washing the dishes when someone started banging on the window.

"Oi, Drake!" He turned around to see Will waving from outside, pointing at the door. He crossed the shop and unlocked it, and the man stepped inside and looked around. "Hey, this place is a bit creepy at night."

"It's not that bad," Draco said. "What are you doing here?"

"Bee said you'd been acting funny lately." He lifted a hand and intentionally mussed his hair, like he was worried it had gotten too neat. "I thought you might benefit from a night out on the town."

Draco pretended he needed to think about it. "That sounds all right," he said, acting casual.

"That's the spirit." Will threw an arm across Draco's shoulders and made to lead him outside.

"I still have to close the shop," he said, trying to break free of the hold.

"Did you wash the dishes?" He nodded. "Then everything else will be fine. I'll tell Bee it was my fault if you like – she knows I can be a bad influence from time to time."

He surveyed the shop, and it was mostly clean. There was nothing that would upset Bianca in the morning. "Fine," he said. "Where are we going?"

"We're going to get drunk," Will said. His enthusiasm would usually be contagious, but Draco was gloomy enough to deflect it. "And if that doesn't help, we'll think of something else."

"Good idea." It wasn't going to fix anything, but it would solve the problem of tonight.

"And, as a happily married bloke, I'm the perfect wingman. Would you like me to get you laid?" he offered conversationally. It was tempting, although he knew from experience that meaningless sex was only a temporary distraction. Will was so theatrical that he could probably attract women in droves; it might even work better than Blaise's patented aloof-with-perfect-bone-structure strategy.

"I'll think about it," he said.

"You're not seeing anybody right now, are you?" He shook his head. "Just checking." Will kept up a consistent stream of one-way conversation as he led Draco down the street to the Leaky Cauldron, speaking at length about how excited he was about his baby.

Once at the pub, he seemed to decide that he was more interested in furthering Draco's genetic material. They claimed a table and ordered their first round, and he began to ask Draco's opinion of various women. He told Draco the plan: they'd scope out the room first and then go talk to his favourites. The drinks kept coming, and by the time Will had pointed out every petite brunette in the room, Draco was beginning to get suspicious. And drunk.

"Do you think I have a type or something?" He swirled the Firewhiskey in his glass, trying to remember how many he'd had.

"What do you mean?" Will asked, playing innocent.

"All the women you've asked me about so far have looked very similar." Three? Four? No, it was more than that. It kept spinning on its own after he stopped swirling it around. Will acted like he was offended.

"Now, that's not fair," he said. "Each of those lovely women is her own individual, with her own personal sense of –"

"Knock that off. What are you playing at?"

Will held up his hands like surrender, but Draco didn't buy it. "I was just trying to see what you like, mate. You've liked them all so far, so I think I'm moving in the right direction, but we can branch out a bit if you want. What about her?" he asked, indicating a curvaceous redhead.

"Pretty fit, but she looks like a Weasley."

"All right. Her?" Will tilted his jaw to point out a tall, willowy blonde in a black velvet dress.

"She looks too much like my mum," he said.

"See, we're back where we started." Will was fairly drunk by now, too, and his tongue was even looser than usual. "I'm just going to go back to my original plan of pointing out every woman who reminds me of Jane until you admit it."

"Oh, come on," he pleaded.

"No, you come on! Do you know what Meg and Bee talk about when you aren't around? I'll give you a hint: the answer is you. And do you want to know what they say about you?" He shook his head. "I'm going to tell you anyway. Now, don't be offended, but they say that you're all grey and stormy, and the only time you look happier is when you see Jane. When I was coming in to spy on you – sorry about that, by the way – I noticed it, too: most of the time, you look really tense and serious. Then, at the Phoenix Day dinner, it was this whole different Drake, glancing up every point-four seconds to search for the back of Jane's head in the crowd." As he spoke, Will performed an unflattering impression of Draco looking for Hermione, and he had to look away. "Tom asked me later if you two were dating. He thought the surname thing was an inside joke or something, but I got all the social skills in our family, so who knows what's going on in that brain of his."

Draco opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, and instead lifted his glass to take a long drink.

"Here's what we're going to do," Will continued. "We'll forget about meeting new women and work on hooking the one we already know."

Draco still didn't feel like responding verbally.

"My wife thinks she'll say 'yes' if you ask her out."

"That's very unlikely," he said at last. He wasn't going to do it, but if he did, it wouldn't work.

"Why not? Bee knows her pretty well – they're practically best friends these days."

"They are? What happened to Harry Potter?" the alcohol asked, on Draco's behalf.

"I guess they're still close, but Jane doesn't see him as much as she used to. From what I've heard, he says he's busy with his new baby, but that didn't happen with his first kid, and I don't intend to avoid my best mates for a full six months after my son or daughter enters the world. The ladies think he's avoiding her because he still hangs out with that Weasley bloke all the time, and because Jane was none too happy when he left her alone at the Ministry. But take this with a grain of salt, seeing as I've never personally met him. These are just things I hear, and I do hear a lot of things."

"Well, Bianca's a whole hell of a lot better than those two, so good for Granger," he said. Maybe Hermione was trying to reinvent her image, too. "Either way, I still don't think she'd go out with me."

"You think she just sees you as a friend?"

"What? No, she sees me as an enemy."

Will sighed dramatically and placed a hand over his heart. "That's a relief. You had me worried for a second there. It would be an issue if she thought you two were best mates, and I might have to set you up with one of those lookalikes in here. No, enemy is fine. We can get past that." Draco started to interrupt him, since he clearly didn't understand the gravity of the situation, but he ignored Draco's attempts and continued his monologue. "Let me tell you about the first conversation I ever had with my wife. I'd seen her around in our Hogwarts days, and I thought she was just about the most interesting girl in school. I knew some things about her because she was Head Girl – she was in Ravenclaw, and those Ravenclaw ladies tend to be a bit exclusive about who they'll see. I was in Gryffindor, but I was still afraid to talk to her. I was pretty sure she'd think I was completely an idiot, which she probably does, but you'd never get her to admit it. I can just tell.

"Anyway, short story longer and longer, I never thought I'd see her again until I got my internship at the _Prophet_. She was a staff writer at the time – now she writes books, which is how she first met Jane, by the way. They collaborated on a book about Transfiguration. I was a bit nervous the first time I talked to her at work, and I made this awful joke about Hufflepuffs. She said, 'my mum was a Hufflepuff!' and I just kept talking and talking, and by the time I finally shut up, she pretty much hated my guts. I asked her out anyway, and she asked for my full name, and I told her. Then, she said: 'William Gregory Ward, I will never go out with you,' and that time she meant it."

Draco was still trying to interrupt, but it wasn't working. He was too drunk, for one, and it was like trying to stop a speeding train before it burst through the wall into his living room.

"I didn't give up, though. I kept trying to talk to her, and she said that a few more times, but then I hatched a plan. You might think this feeling you've got about Jane is just a little crush, but I doubt it – nobody just has a crush on a woman like that. It'd be a waste of your time. You've got to get your mind set on it and really do your best. Anyway, my dad was Muggle-born, so he showed us movies when we were growing up, and something that Muggles almost always do when they love someone is show up at their house and play music. I thought that was a pretty sweet little trick, but I didn't want to stalk a lady to her personal residence.

"So, I got my guitar, and I showed up at her office one day when she was just about to leave for lunch, and I played "You Really Got Me" by a Muggle band called The Kinks. The whole office crowded around to watch, mostly because I told them to, and she was so embarrassed, but she was smiling. She said it one more time – 'William Gregory Ward, I will never go out with you' – but that time she didn't mean it. I think enemies can be a better starting point than friends."

Draco tried to process all that information in his inebriated brain, and one thing stood out above the rest. "Maggie was a Hufflepuff?"

"That's what you got out of that?" Will asked incredulously.

"Most of it doesn't really apply to me – Granger and I are _serious enemies_. I've made tonnes of offensive jokes to her and about her, on purpose, but that's not the main reason. My family members have used Unforgivable Curses on her."

"Have you?"

"No, but –"

"There you go. She can't hold you accountable for what your crazy relatives did, and that was a long time ago – from seeing you two together, it looks like you're about where I was with Bee the second or third time she said she'd never go out with me. That means you've only got a couple more rejections to go before she decides you're determined enough to be worth some of her time."

The waitress returned just then to tell them the place was closing, so Draco didn't have to respond. They paid their tabs and headed for the Floo room, where Will grabbed his hand and initiated some kind of modified handshake that was exceptionally confusing in his current mental state.

"This was fun," Will said. "Do you want to go out with Tom and me and a few of our mates this weekend?"

"All right," he said. "Send me an owl about it."

"Good. And think about what I said."

Draco nodded and stepped into the Floo. He decided that if Will wanted to talk about Hermione again on the weekend, he'd probably just leave, because his whole goal was to stop thinking about her. Maybe he'd have to start over from scratch and make new friends who didn't know her; maybe in another country where they'd never even heard of her, or perhaps aliens from another planet who didn't know any humans at all.

There was an owl on the windowsill at his house, and he wondered how long the bird had been waiting. He disentangled the parchment from its leg and shooed it away as he read the short note:

_Come to the place when it opens. Bring J.D., but keep a copy._

It was unsigned, but he knew it was from Hermione, and she must have been referring to the Dawlish photos. He stared at the note and considered his options. If he didn't do it, she'd never trust him and probably never like him. She would think he was a coward forever, but she wouldn't give up on her mission, so she'd still be in danger. His father wouldn't be in trouble, though.

If he did it, he was at the risk of becoming even more involved, both with this and with her, and he'd better hope his father was in prison if he ended up going out with Hermione Granger. His mother probably loved him too much to disown him, but she wouldn't like it, either. He would lose his original two friends, and he and Hermione might not work anyway. He would end up with two friends all over again – Will and Maggie, assuming Bianca sided with Hermione after their break-up – and the whole cycle would begin anew.

Both options were terrible, and so he tried to strike a compromise that was only "bad." Eventually, he made a decision: he'd give Hermione this one file, and then he'd hide the rest of them and tell her she was on her own.

He prepared the duplicate file and collapsed onto his bed.

* * *

He made himself a hangover potion the next morning, and it took the edge off. He arrived at the Raven a few minutes after it opened, and Hermione was already waiting.

She was holding a cup of coffee and fidgeting with her hair, poking at the back of it with her wand. She wasn't casting a spell to make it less frizzy (did one exist? Draco wasn't sure); she was just tapping it, over and over. He was impressed by her wand control: most people with a habit like that would have blown off their own heads by now. He pictured Hermione running in circles with her hair on fire, which was quite funny, and he had to turn his face down so she wouldn't see his smile. He wondered if he could still be a good person someday without losing his sick sense of humour. Hermione would know, but it wasn't like he could ask her.

"Granger," he said, once he'd collected himself.

"Good morning, Malfoy." Her hand stopped its tapping, and she gave him a polite smile and dropped her wand into her pocket. "Did you bring me anything?"

He held up the folder. She was crackling with excitement, so intense that he had to look away.

"Good," she said. "I'm going to visit an old associate, and it would be impolite to show up empty-handed."

That didn't sound good. "You're going to visit him by yourself?"

"Actually, I was hoping you'd go with me."

He didn't want to do that, but he wanted even less for her to go alone. Even worse, he could practically feel himself getting sucked in again: what if he left right now, and something terrible happened, and it was all his fault? Enough terrible things were his fault already, and he didn't want to start adding to the list again.

"Won't it look strange if we just walk in there together?" he asked, trying to stall. It didn't sound too hard, though. They would go in, meet with Dawlish, and get out. Draco would just stand behind her and look intimidating. He didn't have anything better to do today, anyway, and at least it would be mildly entertaining.

"Nobody's going to see us come in," she said. He guessed she must have known some kind of secret way to Dawlish's office because he couldn't think of a way to sneak into the Ministry.

"If I don't go, you're going by yourself?" he confirmed.

"Correct," she said, and he winced. She smiled at him, and he reckoned she knew what he was going to say. He reckoned she'd convinced him, but then he remembered that she hadn't said much of anything. In fact, he had more or less convinced himself.

"Fine, I'll go," he muttered. No use overanalyzing.

"Let's leave from the back room," she said. She didn't seem surprised at all that he was going with her.

As they approached the door, Bianca stepped in front of it and folded her arms. "You are not using this coffee shop for any more secret meetings until you tell me what's going on," she declared.

Hermione moved forward and touched Bianca's arm. "It's not that we _want_ to keep you in the dark –"

"He does," she snapped, indicating Draco with a jerk of her head. She was absolutely correct, so he didn't try to argue or anything. Hermione gave him an admonishing look, and he shrugged.

"It's just that we've got to make sure we have all the information before we tell anybody about it. Please, Bianca, just trust me on this. When the time is right, you'll be the first to know." Draco was thinking it was an exemplary piece of manipulation, but then he realised she was maybe just being honest.

Bianca didn't agree right away, and Draco hoped that her trust for Hermione would outweigh her suspicions about his involvement. "If it's that important, you can use this room today," she said, relenting. "But my dad comes in at ten, and mum's here in the mornings on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. If you need to do this again, you have to make sure that neither of them finds out. Mum would worry herself sick about you two."

"Thanks, Bianca. You won't regret this," Hermione said, and the other woman moved aside to let them pass.

Once they'd locked the door and silenced it, Hermione pulled an ancient-looking folded garment out of her bag, and Draco did a double take. It looked like an Invisibility Cloak, but those were so rare that he'd only ever seen drawings in books.

"Is that what I think it is?" he asked, and she nodded. "Where did you get one of those?"

"I borrowed it from a friend," she said, and Draco thought he could guess which one she meant, that lucky bastard. He wondered how she'd gotten hold of it, though, considering she and Potter weren't as close as they used to be. Maybe he was wrong, and it was Longbottom's cloak or something – ha, good one.

"All right, so here's the plan. We enter the Ministry under the cloak and sneak into Dawlish's office. I'll come out and ask him a few questions, but you stay hidden just in case he tries anything. Can I have the photos?"

He handed her the file, and she glanced at the first shot and pulled a face. "Ew," she remarked insightfully. That about summed it up. She deactivated the spells on the door and showed him her determination. "Are you ready?"

He didn't respond, but she didn't wait for an answer. She unfolded the cloak and wrapped it around herself, beckoning for him to join her. He stepped under it cautiously, and then they were very close together. He had to hunch down a little bit to keep his feet hidden, and his head was almost resting on her shoulder with her back nearly flush against his chest. He took a deep breath, and her back straightened when he let it out against her ear. He didn't think she had breathed yet at all, and he reckoned this arrangement was probably making her pretty uncomfortable. He was getting a little bit uncomfortable, too, if you catch the drift. "All right," she whispered, turning her head so that her lips came close to brushing his cheek. "I'll have to Apparate both of us together. They haven't deactivated my pass yet."

The Ministry had finally gotten rid of the strange toilet system of entry, and now any individual with an authorized token could Apparate directly into the Atrium during business hours. She reached a hand out to her side. He took it, and he was pretty sure he felt her squeeze his hand right before his world flipped, stretched, contracted, and spun.

They landed hard on slippery tile in the lobby, and he had to grab her around the waist to stay upright under the cloak. She stumbled a half step forward, and he held his breath for a second as they stood perfectly still to make sure no one heard the scuffle. It didn't seem like anyone took a second glance at the spot they were standing, and he felt her relax against him.

"You can let go of me now," she whispered. He jerked his hands away like she was on fire, creeping backwards to place a few centimetres between them. _Who knew invisibility cloaks were so warm? _he wondered, tugging at his collar.

She walked slowly and quietly, and they fell into step as she led him to Dawlish's office. It was a stressful trip with a few near-miss incidents, but he was pretty sure the sleepwalking early risers at the Ministry would have barely noticed if he reached out and punched them with an invisible fist, unless he managed to spill their precious coffee in the process. A few were so hopped up on Pepper-Up that their wide eyes twitched erratically in the direction of the muffled footsteps, but most of them were stumbling forward with their eyes nearly closed.

Hermione was able to open the locked door of the office, and they stepped into the dark room and closed the door behind them. "Dawlish is always late," she whispered, "but he should be here soon. He always closes the door, too, so nobody will see that he isn't working."

They huddled into a corner to wait. Draco used the time to reinvestigate that smell in her hair, but he still couldn't figure out what it was.

After a few minutes, the man of the hour ambled in and closed the door, just as Hermione had predicted. He hummed under his breath as he used his wand to turn on the lights, with a pep in his step. _Well, at least he got to be in a good mood for a few minutes this morning_, Draco thought deviously. When he turned to hang up his hat, Hermione stepped forward and disarmed him from behind. Dawlish froze in place as his wand flew out of his hand.

"Turn around," she instructed. She kept her own wand trained on her former boss and pocketed the extra one, and Draco had to admit he was impressed with her neat little display.

"Oh, not you – _anyone_ but you," he whined when he saw her, with his hands on either side of his head. "I thought I was done dealing with you."

In Draco's opinion, Dawlish was an idiot if he'd really believed that for a minute. If he had killed Hermione, she probably would have haunted him for all eternity – she never gave up on anything, even when quitting was a good idea.

"I've come across some interesting pictures of you, Mr. Dawlish. I'm certain you know which ones I mean," she said. He looked like he was about to deny it for a second, but then he caught sight of the file in her hands and panicked.

"Where did you get those?" he demanded. "Merlin, the two things I thought were never going to bother me again. What a day!"

"It doesn't matter where I got these, but I do know who else has them," she said. "How about you tell me your side of the story?"

She was mocking him, and Dawlish could barely hide his anger. Her back was to Draco, but he could picture the smug smile on her face. Dawlish broke eye contact to seek an escape, but he seemed to surmise correctly that he wouldn't have time to reach the door before a spell hit him. Instead, he attempted an ingratiating look and began to grovel.

"I've made some mistakes in my life. So, I love women – big deal." He shrugged and spread his fingers, showing his open palms. "That doesn't make me a monster. I didn't want to work with the Death Eaters, but they came to me during the Second War, and they had these photos that would have put me in prison. I didn't know those girls were underage," he said, and Hermione made a disgusted noise.

"Anyway, I had no choice but to cooperate," he continued. "I thought it would end after You-Know-Who was defeated, but it didn't. They said the photos would be released if they went to Azkaban, so I pardoned them, and then I was paying them off and passing legislation on their behalf. We got rid of all the Order members and complied with all their demands, but they still weren't satisfied." He rolled his eyes dramatically, to emphasise what a headache this had been for him. "Finally, a few of us got together and realised that nobody had seen a photo for years, so we told them we weren't going to work for them anymore unless they showed us the pictures again. They still haven't. Believe me, if I had known they didn't have access to what they said they did, I never would have pardoned them."

That explained why his father suddenly wanted that box: the blackmail targets had finally called his bluff. To keep himself out of prison, he would need to prove he had evidence against them, which would be tricky because he didn't. Draco also noted that Dawlish was lucky Hermione wasn't holding an empty folder, seeing as he'd just given her everything she would have needed against him. It was too bad she hadn't known he was so malleable, or she could have faked him out years ago.

"Has the Ministry been paying money to these individuals?" she asked.

"The Ministry hasn't, but we have out of our own pockets."

"Then technically the Ministry has, if you count the pay raises you've given yourselves over the years. Give me names." He waffled briefly, but eventually he caved under what Draco assumed was a pretty intense glare.

"Lucius Malfoy, Jarvis Nott, Hector Crabbe, and Oliver Goyle."

Draco could have told her that: those were the only four known Death Eaters to escape prison after the Second War, and it was obvious they had some tricks up their sleeves.

"Thank you," she said, again in that mocking tone. "I'm glad we had this talk. Oh, and I'll do you one better than the Death Eaters, just so you know I'm serious." She took out the first photo and held it up for his viewing pleasure, and he cringed. "Now, turn around, get on your knees, and place your hands behind your head," she ordered. He complied without another word.

Hermione motioned for Draco to follow her as she headed toward the door, placing Dawlish's wand behind his feet on the way out. She hurried back under the cloak as soon as they left the office, but Dawlish didn't follow them, and neither of them spoke until Hermione took his hand in the Atrium and Apparated them to the Shrieking Shack.

She did a little victory dance once they'd taken off the cloak, and he almost laughed at her, but it was over before he could blink. As though she'd never danced a second in her life, she returned to the business at hand.

"Why do you think only those four were in on the plan?" she asked. "Wouldn't they want as many people out of Azkaban as possible?"

"I thought about that, and I think it's because they're not well-known, with the exception of my father." He began to tick names off on his fingers as he spoke: "There were crowds of parents calling for the imprisonment of the Carrows after their stint at Hogwarts, and you can thank my aunt for making Lestrange a household name – all the blackmail in the world couldn't have kept Uncle Rodolphus on the streets. I think my father probably organised the scheme and only invited the safer options, which also happened to be his closest friends." He'd heard that those lucky four 'defected,' but he was never sure why it counted as defecting, since it happened in the last ten minutes of the War. He'd always thought that was just called 'knowing you're about to lose.'

"I guess I should have been thinking about this years ago," she said, shaking her head.

"At least you didn't lock yourself in a mansion for almost a decade," he pointed out dryly, and she smiled.

"That's true. Anyway, we're both doing something now, and I think it's going quite well." She looked at him strangely for a second, tilted her head, and nodded once. "High five," she said, holding up her right hand as though she were being sworn in for office.

"What?"

"Give me a high five – it's when you slap my hand," she explained. "Sometimes you miss, so it helps to line your elbow up with mine."

"Why would we want to do that? It sounds ridiculous."

"You only think so because you haven't tried it," she said. "Muggles do it when they're excited, or they've accomplished something through teamwork." She moved her hand closer and wiggled her fingers.

Well, fine. If she wasn't going to give up, he would get it over with. He carefully lined up his elbow across from hers and concentrated on her hand, and then he slapped it as she'd instructed. It felt funny, and he turned his hand around and looked at it like he'd never seen one before. She giggled at his reaction, and he shook his wrist to try and get the tingles off.

"Thank you for your help. I have to get this cloak back to my friend before he, er, notices it's gone," she said sheepishly. "I'll contact you soon."

Draco realised he'd either inadvertently signed up for her mailing list or added himself to the resistance movement, and no matter which one it was, his life was about to get full of extra junk. He kept thinking about what Will had said to him the previous night, though, and he figured he might as well get it over with now. Once she said 'no,' he could put it out of his mind.

"Wait," he said. It was surprisingly easy to do this, because he fully expected to be rejected. There wasn't that horrible "what if" factor, and the adrenaline was still coursing through his veins after their successful mission. "Would you like to go out with me?"

She looked at him like he had six heads, one of them was a turkey, and all of them were on fire.

"What?" she asked, frozen to the spot.

"I asked if you'd like to go out with me," he repeated. He kept his voice cool, like it didn't matter it at all.

"No!" she said. "Are you serious?"

"I'm serious."

"Well… no," she said again. The only part of her body that she seemed capable of moving was her eyeballs, as her gaze flitted randomly around the room.

"Any chance you'll change your mind?" he asked mildly.

"I don't think so," she said, and he nodded. _Good_, he thought. Now, the whole thing was finished. The next time she came round asking for his help, he'd tell her he was busy and send her on her way.

She gave him one last bewildered look and Disapparated.


	12. Yes

**Chapter 12: Yes**

He didn't, though. Stop thinking about it, that is.

Sometimes, the thing a person wanted most was right in front of his face. Other times, it was far away, hiding from its feelings and deliberately avoiding him. Hermione Granger was being the second kind.

Of course, this was less relevant when it was taken into account that Hermione was not a "thing"; instead, she was a free-willed human being who could make her own decisions. On the other hand, another great thing about human beings was that they could change their minds.

Will had owled Draco the day after his mission with Hermione to set up their plans, which were for that night, so he had something to look forward to. Unfortunately, he had to deal with Bianca pouncing on him again, as soon as he walked in the door at work.

"I talked to Hermione the other night," she said.

"Really? Hm," said Draco, pretending not to care.

"She told me you asked her out." The joy in her smile was about proportional to the depth of his scowl.

"I guess I can see why she might think that," he said, picking at one of his nails. He was the poster boy for apathy.

"Because you did?"

"I can almost understand how it would seem that way," he said, but she ignored him this time.

"Is that what you've been doing in the back room?" She narrowed her eyes. "There has to be another place you could snog."

"No. We haven't been snogging at all, anywhere."

"Well, when you do, make sure you don't do it here. Unless she won't let you snog her anywhere else, in which case do what you have to do," she said. Apparently, Bianca was really committed to this matchmaking thing.

"Look, I guess you didn't hear the whole story or something, but she's turned me down," he said. It felt uncomfortable to reveal that sort of emotional, embarrassing fact, so he added: "She mistakenly believed that I was asking her out, but I thought we had cleared up that little misunderstanding."

He could tell she didn't believe him, and he wondered when he'd become such a terrible liar. Once upon a time, he had been able to spread tales that swept the whole school and sometimes even landed in the _Prophet_. Maybe it didn't work anymore because he was spending his time with people like Hermione these days: she'd never believed a word he said, whether it was true or not.

"You know, when she told me what happened, I had to spend ten minutes convincing her you were serious, and this is exactly why. She wouldn't admit it, but I think that's why she turned you down – she thought it was all a big joke or a spur-of-the-moment whim or something. Why don't you try saying what you're really feeling for once? Go on, practice it now. Tell me about feeling that you have."

Draco was having none of this. If she wanted a feeling, he would give her one, and she would regret asking. "I _feel_ extremely annoyed that you think this is any of your business," he said, all stone and sharp edges, but for some reason it pleased her.

"See, that's perfectly normal. Mum and Will and I are all nosing into your personal life, completely uninvited. I'm sorry that it's annoying for you," she said. She offered no indication that any of them planned to stop, though. "Give me another one."

He decided to find out what she thought of his least popular opinion. "I feel that Harry Potter is a self-obsessed one-man pity party with a martyrdom complex."

She was unfazed. "Plenty of people who've done great things throughout history have been pricks. I don't know if Harry Potter is, since I've only met him a few times, but he might be," she said. "Say another."

"I think your husband talks too much," he said, louder this time. It was true, and he thought insulting her loved ones might get her off this.

"Did you think I hadn't noticed? Keep going!" Social interaction would be so much easier if people would just do what Draco thought they were going to do.

"I don't understand how you and Maggie can be so nice all the time, or why I can't do it, or why everyone keeps underestimating me! You know, I always deserved my position on the Slytherin Quidditch team, and it really hurt that time that hippogriff broke my arm!" He didn't really know what he was saying anymore, but he kept going. "I never wanted to do anything in the War, and I don't like my father, and I'm jealous of people with really easy, uncomplicated lives! Sometimes I wish something bad would happen to them, just so they'd know what it was like," he finished, breathing heavily. "See why I don't say this stuff?"

Bianca placed a hand over her mouth, like she was about to get all emotional. To his extreme shock, she stepped forward and threw her arms around him without warning. He tried to get away, and after a couple seconds she pulled back. "Don't you think you'd feel better if you told people things like this more often?"

"No," he said. Maybe it was liberating, but only in the same way that jumping off a cliff would liberate him from gravity.

"Now, tell me how you feel about Hermione."

He stalled for a minute, avoiding eye contact, but he'd already told her so much that one more wouldn't really make a difference. "I think she should go out with me," he said.

"I think so, too," Bianca agreed. "She will, but she didn't even know you fancied her until now. You're going to have to really show her you mean business about this. Don't sing her a song in front of everyone, though. I don't think she'd like that," she advised.

"You did," he pointed out, and she rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, Will said he told you that story; it's one of his favourites. I'll tell you my version, and trust me – it wasn't the song. Will was sort of a ladies' man at the time, and there was no way I was going to be his next two-week fling, because I really liked him a lot. When he put on that outrageous show, I knew he'd never done something like that for anyone else, so that's what convinced me that he was serious." Well, as a person who didn't do things for other people as a rule, it wouldn't be difficult for Draco to do something for Hermione that he'd never done for another woman, if he theoretically wanted to continue down this stupid road. "But Will only did that because he'd watched too many Muggle movies. You don't have to manufacture some kind of over-the-top romantic gesture to prove you're worth the risk. Be honest and natural. No flowers, no sweets, and no spelling her name in the sky."

"What am I supposed to do, then?" he asked.

"If you're trying to think of something special, you're already doing it wrong. Just keep spending time with her, and do what feels right, and she'll see. You'll get a fine opportunity tonight – Will thought this would be better as a surprise, but Hermione and I are going to the pub with you. Don't tell him I told you. He always forgets that hardly anybody likes surprises as much as he does."

She rolled her eyes again and left the shop, and he stared out the window and thought about the night ahead. If it was so obvious to everybody else, he didn't know why Hermione had been so shocked to hear that he fancied her – especially after he'd already asked her out, something which most women saw as a pretty unmistakable sign of interest. He would really have to do a lot better to make up for all those things he'd said to her in the past. For example, she might have been under the impression that he still thought she had frizzy hair and oversized teeth and dressed like a nun, when really only two out of three were the case. In fact, she didn't dress poorly most of the time, now that he thought about it: those were just her work robes. Her hair was absolutely still frizzy, but that didn't make it ugly. There was just a whole lot of it.

Anyway, he'd worry about it later.

At closing time, Will came round again to collect him. On the way to the Leaky Cauldron, it seemed his conscience had gained the upper hand.

"I have to come clean with you, mate. Jane's going to be there tonight," he said.

"I know. Your wife told me."

"What? It was supposed to be a surprise," he said, which was a more than a little hypocritical. "Anyway, you know now. Bee thinks you should be yourself, and I think you should be a dashing yet pleasantly sensitive sex god, so maybe aim for somewhere in between." That was terrible advice, so Draco decided to ignore it.

When they got to the pub, the same group from Phoenix Day was already sitting around a table with two empty chairs. One seat was next to Hermione, and the other was next to Bianca, and Will practically shoved Draco into the former. They were met with a chorus of greetings, and the waitress stopped by and took the new drink orders.

"So, Draco," Bianca began, "someone was telling me you're good at Quidditch. Do you still play?" That was the sort of thing Blaise would have said on his behalf as wingman, so he knew what she was playing at.

"I don't play as much as I used to, but I did pretty well," he said. The rest of the group offered their experiences with the game as they continued to drink, and the conversation shifted to professional Quidditch. He noticed that Hermione was uncharacteristically quiet as the talk dragged on, and he could tell from her face that she wasn't a big sports fan. It was an opportunity if Draco had ever seen one.

"All right, I think we're boring Granger to tears," he said. "Everyone already knows the Chudley Cannons are the worst team to ever insult the sport, so no point reiterating it."

Hermione gave him that baffled look again, and he raised his eyebrows. She looked away, but that didn't she wasn't thinking about him.

"Drake's got a point," Will said. "There's something I wanted to bring up with you all anyway. People haven't been buying Muggle music as much lately, and my column's been cut to once a month. Now, don't worry – I have a plan, but I still have to talk to some people about it and work out the bugs. For now, if you've got some extra cash, go to the Basement and get some new CDs, so Don doesn't get discouraged. Especially you, Drake: tell all your other friends to buy music."

Draco would tell all two of them. Well, maybe just one – he wasn't sure how he'd broach the subject with Pansy.

Hermione shook her head with a huff. "That's too bad about your column, but I guess it didn't mesh well with the crap they've been printing in the opinion section."

"Tell me about it. Those aren't even staff writers coming up with that load; it's guest writers sending it in, and my editor says he wants to print 'a wider variety of opinions' – whatever. My plan's going to work, I'm sure of it. I'll tell you all as soon as it's ready."

Draco was curious what Will had up his sleeve, particularly because he was certain it would involve him. He was the only pure-blood wizard at the table, and he didn't miss the implication when Will had mentioned his "other friends." If Muggle music kept going as a trend for Muggle-borns and their children, it would be a lot easier for the _Prophet_ to put a negative spin on it. He was encouraged by Blaise's opinions on the subject: the Zabinis had become the quintessential pure-blood family after Nott and Goyle had fucked off out of the country, while Draco and Pansy had chosen to let their genes rot. Not that Draco was going to continue that strategy indefinitely, of course. "If you want me to help, I'll do it," he said.

"That's what I like to hear." Will clapped him on the shoulder, but Draco was more interested in Hermione's reaction. She was puzzled again, and there was something deeply satisfying about the way he could consistently stump the president of the know-it-all club. The rest of the table was talking about bands Draco had never heard of, but Hermione seemed lost in thought as she ran a finger around the rim of her glass, and he seized another opportunity. He leaned in.

"Do you want to go out with me?" he whispered. She grabbed her drink in a hurry and took a sip, shrugging his head off her shoulder.

"Wow, I'm getting pretty tipsy," she said, as though she hadn't heard the question.

In other words, she thought he was only asking her because he was drunk. She must not have been a big drinker, or she'd realise that alcohol did not have the ability to put new ideas into anyone's head. Even if someone's new idea was "I'm going to climb that tree," for example, it was still something he or she had thought of as a child. When it didn't result in the drinker breaking his leg, the main function of alcohol was to make people tell the truth.

He decided to drop the subject, but this was a good sign. She hadn't even managed a real rejection this time.

At the end of the night, there was a drunken hug fiasco in the Floo room to rival the Phoenix Day party. Draco found himself on the receiving end of more than one awkward embrace; not from Hermione, though, the one person here that he wanted to touch. He wondered if there was some kind of hug dummy he could buy to practice on, since he'd have to get better at this if he was going to keep hanging out with serial personal-space-invaders. Tom and Gwen left, and he was about to follow them when a voice caught his attention.

"Malfoy, hang back a second," Hermione said. He was distracted by Will and Bianca over her shoulder: they were trying to communicate their excitement about Hermione's request with a series of elaborate hand gestures. Finally, they laughed and fell into each other's arms to Apparate home.

Draco was kind of jealous, but maybe Hermione was about to suggest a similar arrangement. _"__Malfoy, I don't think I can sleep alone. Could you come with me?"_ He'd be a gentleman about it, of course, or otherwise she'd hate him forever. Not that he would take advantage of a woman either way, but tipsy wasn't the same as drunk. Two slightly giddy strangers could decide to have an eventful night together without anybody feeling bad about it, but that wasn't what Hermione was after. He'd sleep with her without attempting to remove a single article of clothing, and then in the morning –

"Malfoy?" Oh, right, things were happening.

"At your service," he said, moving in closer. She giggled, and both her hands went up and skittered across her hair.

"Er, I wanted to tell you – the, er –" He touched her shoulder and ran his hand down to her elbow because she already couldn't talk, and he wondered if he could make it any worse. She was still giggling. "Malfoy, I'm trying to – talk, and – this is important!" He took away his hand and made his innocent face. She took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself and continued in a calmer voice. "I was hoping you'd meet with me first thing tomorrow morning, so I can see the rest of the photos. I've got all my plans in place."

"At the Raven?"

"No, just go directly to the Shrieking Shack at seven o'clock – I don't want to upset Bianca again."

"You know what she thinks we're doing in there," he said. Clearly, she did know, because the giggles came back and she couldn't make eye contact anymore. It was too dark in the Floo room, but he wished he could see if she was blushing.

"Good night, Malfoy," she managed after a few seconds. "Seven o'clock," she repeated.

She stepped into the Floo. After a moment, he headed home, too.

* * *

Draco woke early to make sure he looked his best. He drank a hangover potion and stuffed another small vial into his pocket next to the rolled-up documents, in case Hermione wanted one. Then, he walked across the grounds to the Apparition point and went to the Shrieking Shack, where she was waiting already.

"Thanks for coming," she said with a weary smile. He could tell she was tired. "I just wanted to update you on our next step." Apparently, they were a "we" now, but only in the one context where he was certain he didn't want that.

"Before we do that, do you want a hangover cure?" He produced the vial from his pocket, and she took it with a measure of confusion.

"That was very thoughtful of you," she said, as though Draco being thoughtful were some kind of once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. He supposed it was a fair opinion, in retrospect. "Can I have the rest of the photos?"

He handed them over, and she began to look through the folder. Suddenly, there was a _pop_ and a puff of thin smoke, and Gully appeared in front of Draco.

"Master Draco, Gully has come to you with important news." She checked over her shoulder and spotted Hermione. "Is Gully allowed to talk about this in front of Miss?"

"Yes. Gully, this is Miss Granger. Granger, this is Gully." Hermione crouched down to elf-level and held out her hand.

"Hi, Gully. You can call me Hermione."

"It is good to be meeting you, Miss Hermione." She ignored Hermione's hand and offered a low bow instead. "Friends of Master Draco is friends of Gully."

"What's your favourite thing about working for Master Draco?"

Since he'd read her book, Draco knew the purpose of this question: Hermione had explained it in her prologue. A stranger asking elves if they liked their masters invariably yielded a positive response, but asking for their favourite part led to a subtle difference in the answers. Resentful elves were vague and tried to dodge the question, while happy elves gave specific examples.

"Master Draco is the best master an elf could ever wish for, Miss Hermione," she gushed. If someone were to ask Draco what he liked best about Gully, he would definitely have mentioned the way she waved her tiny arms around randomly when she was excited. House-elves were weird-looking as a rule, in his opinion, but there was something oddly endearing about Gully's enthusiasm. "Master Draco has given his elves lots of fun games to play, and he never yells or closes Gully's ears in the oven."

Hermione was surprised, he could tell. "Wow, Malfoy," she said, as she straightened herself back up. "She really likes you."

He nodded, and the elf preened. "What did you come here to tell me, Gully?"

"Oh, yes. Gully is coming here to say that Master Lucius has learned how to hold the box, and he has taken it away from the study."

"How did he pick it up?"

"Master Lucius is casting spells on his hands, and then the box is floating above them."

That was good news. His father must have found a shielding charm to guard his hands from the curse, but he still wouldn't be able to open it until he disarmed the actual spells. Unfortunately, since the box was out of the study now, Draco would have no way of knowing about it if he did.

"All right, thanks for telling me. Let me know if he tries to contact any of the elves again."

"Yes, Master. It is a pleasure making the acquaintance of Miss Hermione." She offered Hermione another bow before Disapparating.

Hermione's mood seemed to have improved afterward, judging by the way she kept smiling at Draco. It probably had something to do with Gully, and he decided to follow Bianca's advice and say something honest.

"I read your book about house-elves," he said.

"You _did_?" Her eyes went wide, and he nodded. "Well, er, that's good." She was flustered now, nervously tucking some hair behind her ear and looking up at him through her lashes. "So, yes. Anyway. Does this mean your father has the documents?"

"No, he wouldn't have had to guard his hands if he knew how to get through the spells. We've still got time."

"That's a relief. The first step is to get those last four Death Eaters into prison, where they should have been from the start." He winced at that, but if she noticed, she didn't show it. "If we can get that done before your father opens the box, we're in good shape. I've been in contact with Dawlish, and he's under the impression that if he complies with our demands by retrying those men, I'm going to let him off the hook. He really is rather dim. Phase two, of course, is to go to Shacklebolt with the rest of the information and purge the Ministry."

Draco stood still as he took it all in. This whole thing was unfolding exactly as he'd feared, and it occurred to him that it was too late to stop it. Even if he backed out now, he'd already given her everything she would need to put his dad away for life.

"There's no way this can end without my father going to prison?"

Her expression was sympathetic, which he reckoned was rather nice, since she didn't really have to try and empathize with him about this. People wanting to chuck his dad in Azkaban had been a constant in his life from birth, so he was pretty used to it. "I'm sorry, Malfoy, but there really isn't."

He looked away, and she walked to the other end of the room and stared out the window, presumably to give him some time to collect his thoughts.

He was thinking about his mother, mostly. There had been a time when his parents had loved each other, but that was before the Dark Lord's return. Even Draco hadn't been too distracted to notice the shift after that: Lucius became obsessed with his duties and took to yelling at Narcissa to blow off steam, something he had almost never done before. He stopped spending time at home, and they had slept in separate bedrooms for a while, due to his father's erratic hours.

After Draco took the Mark, his mother couldn't even be in the same room with his father for days. She'd tried to stop it from happening, too, and that had been the first and only time the Dark Lord had ever punished Narcissa. After the War, things were a bit better between them, but it wasn't the same. She wouldn't say a word about it, but Draco didn't think his mother would ever forgive her husband for putting the Dark Lord before his family. In all honesty, neither would Draco.

"Just do what you have to do," he said at last. It wasn't like he could stop her, anyway.

"I'd like for you to go with me when I meet with Shacklebolt. There's no way I would have been able to do this without your help, and I want to make sure everybody knows that."

That would be nice, in a way. He'd be all over the papers, but this time it would be for doing something right. It was a big step, though; everything seemed to be moving very quickly, and he was having trouble keeping up.

Speaking of steps, she was still looking at him quite fondly, and this seemed like a good time to go for date request number three. "I'll think about it," he said. "Also, would you like to go out with me?"

With her fingertips, she touched her chin, then her lips, and then her chin again. She pushed at her hair a bit, glancing around at nothing. He leaned forward in anticipation. "All right, then. Yes."

Well, didn't that just beat all. _Yes_. All those other words he'd been thinking and saying and hearing for all these weeks crashed together into three neat letters. "This week?"

"I could do that," she said.

"I'll owl you about it," he said. "See you soon, Granger."

"See you," she confirmed, and she gave him another one of those sweet little waves and Disapparated. Once she was gone, he allowed his smile to spread undeterred all over his face.

_Yes_.


	13. Sons and Daughters

**Chapter 13: Sons and Daughters**

At work later, Draco was able to successfully conceal his excitement from Bianca. Of course, she still didn't waste any time trying to work some gossip out of him.

"You look tired. Late night last night?" she asked, all casual.

"No. I went home after the pub."

"Do you live alone, then?"

Two questions in, and he already knew where she was going with this. He was tempted to head her off and tell her right then that he hadn't slept with Hermione, but he'd learned in recent weeks that polite conversation was a delicate and fragile thing. He was improving with practice, but it was a chore sometimes. He always had to dance around the issues and approach from certain angles and pad everything with a whole bunch of cushy extra words, or everybody thought he was an arsehole. If people could just say what they meant all the time, he thought, everything would get done a lot quicker, and they'd find themselves with a lot more free time. Silent free time, but relaxing nonetheless.

"I do right now," he said. "My parents go on holiday in the summer."

If it wasn't for that whole thing about polite conversation, Draco was pretty sure Bianca would have said, 'you still live with your _parents_?' Instead, she tried to camouflage her reaction and came up with a softer wording.

"At Malfoy Manor? I didn't know you still lived there. Mum and I got to go there one time a few years ago, when your mum threw that ball for the new business owners that were setting up shop in Diagon Alley. It was really a lovely thing to do. That place is huge, though. Don't you ever get lonely?"

He could see Bianca's point shining at the end of the tunnel. Just a couple hundred more words, and they'd be at the real question. At least he finally knew why they liked the idea of Malfoys so much around here, which was something he'd been wondering since his first shift. He didn't remember that specific ball, but it was safe to assume he'd locked himself in his room for it as usual.

In the imaginary land of brevity, Draco's answer to her question would have simply been _yes_, but that wasn't where they lived. "It's not so bad," he said. "I was thinking of getting my own place soon, though."

That was kind of true. The thought had occurred to him, but he'd been ignoring it for a while to deal with other things. It was beginning to seem like a priority again, especially now that he'd seen Bianca's reaction to his current living arrangement. He suspected Hermione would have a similar one, and that would be embarrassing.

"Oh, really? Have you started looking yet?"

"No. I might go out later this week and check out a few places." That wasn't even a little bit true, but he'd get around to it eventually.

"Are you looking for a flat or a house?"

"I think a flat, for now." He sort of wanted to go off on a tangent about something, just to get Bianca even further away from what she really wanted to talk about, but he couldn't come up with anything.

"You should have a housewarming party when you find one, so we can all see it," she suggested. Then, the moment had arrived. "So, what did Hermione want to talk to you about last night?"

"She just wanted to arrange a meeting for the project we're working on," he said. Her face fell.

"Oh. And you still can't tell me what it is?"

"No. You'll find out soon, though, I'd imagine." Because everyone would.

"Well, is it going well?"

"I think it'll be successful." That was if "successful" meant his father going to prison, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

"I'm glad to hear that. If there's any way I can help, don't hesitate to ask. I can keep a secret."

"It's really Granger's project, so you'll have to tell her that."

"All right. Have a good shift." She started to walk away, but then she turned to face him again. "You know, I bet she'd let you call her Hermione."

That was one possibility, but another possibility was that Hermione wouldn't want him calling her at all, so he'd just as soon stick to Granger for the time being. He shrugged, and she gave him that annoying knowing look again before heading out the door.

He spent his free time at work drafting the message he was going to send to set up their date. He almost wanted to have someone proofread it because Hermione would notice any mistakes, but after reading it over twenty times he was pretty sure there weren't any.

After the Raven closed for the night, he went home and sent it. Afterward, it was time once again to pace in his living room until the owl returned, half an hour later. He knew Hermione had been at home, and her reply was short; she'd probably delayed sending it for a while so as to avoid seeming too eager.

_Malfoy,_

_I'm free Saturday night, and dinner sounds fine. There's a nice Italian restaurant up the street from the Raven, Ristorante Infine. Do you want to meet there at seven?_

_Granger_

He took a page out of Hermione's book and sat on his reply for about fifteen minutes before sending it. It was actually pretty easy to memorize all the social rules, once you got going with it.

**

* * *

**

The next day, Blaise's head appeared in Draco's fireplace just before he was about to leave for work.

"Afternoon, Malfoy."

"Hey," he said. "How's it going?"

Blaise was confused then, and he wasn't sure why. It had felt like a perfectly normal thing to say. "Are you making small talk?" he asked.

"No, I just asked how you're doing."

"You never do that."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No, mate. You're just getting so much more personable so quickly. It's weird, that's all. I mean, you're almost likable these days, verging even on charming." Blaise laughed at his own joke, and Draco scowled.

"All right, I no longer care how you're doing," he said. "What did you come here for?"

"Ah, there's the Malfoy I know. I haven't seen you in a while, so I thought I'd check in. How's your love life?" His tone was mild, but Draco knew it was a loaded question. His original two friends had probably been dreaming up theories ever since their last meeting at the pub: Blaise got a vicarious thrill from hearing about other people's conquests, and Pansy thought human emotions were humourous.

"Nonexistent, as usual," he replied, as though this were both true and upsetting to him.

"That's not what I heard."

"Don't insult me, I know you're bluffing. You haven't heard shit."

"Ah, so she's someone that you don't think I'd be able to find information about. Interesting."

"There is no 'she.' That's the problem, remember?"

Blaise placed a hand on his chin, eyes narrowed. "No, I'm still not convinced," he replied after a moment's thought. "Tell me who it is."

"There is no one." He kept his voice calm and steady.

This sort of conversation would've been exhausting for some people, but it reminded Draco of some good times back in the Slytherin common room, trying to lie to each other for entertainment and memorizing each other's tells.

For example, Pansy used to clench her jaw directly after telling a lie, causing her back teeth to click together quietly. It was nearly impossible to detect in daily life; however, in dark and silent bed chambers, it was pretty apparent. _I love you (_click_). I always want to be with you (_click_). _Eventually, Draco became so in tune with that maddening sound that he heard it clearly every time she did it, even over the noise in the Great Hall at meals.

Once in their fifth year, she went a whole day without telling him one single true thing, clicking her teeth after every sentence, all in that cloying tone she used to use with him, and he finally snapped. They had an epic row in the common room, and she told him she hated everything about him, and to hell with their parents' plans: she wouldn't marry Draco if he were the last pure-blood wizard on earth.

Once the pressure was off, they were able to start from scratch and slowly become real friends, and Pansy essentially stopped lying to him after that day. He wondered if she would still click her teeth if she did, and if he would still be able to hear it.

Back in the present, Blaise had grown tired of their standoff. "Malfoy, I have informants all over this town. All I have to do is tell them to watch out for you, and I'll know who you're seeing within the week. Just say it."

"In that case, where's the fun in having me tell you? I wouldn't want to rob you of some exciting detective work."

"All right, at least we're finally in agreement that there is someone," Blaise said, satisfied. He paused to think again, and Draco knew he was trying to come up with an effective threat. "But if I have to find out who she is from a third party, I'm going to tell Pansy." Oh, he _wouldn't_. Well, on further review, actually he would.

"How do I know you're not going to tell her either way?"

"You don't, but are you willing to take that chance?"

Draco made a big show of sighing and running a hand through his hair. "Fine. I'll tell you." He paused for dramatic effect. "It's Padma Patil."

Blaise snorted. "Like hell, it is. If you're going to lie again, make sure the witch you choose isn't married with children."

Oh, right, the Daphne factor. Draco would do well to choose a half-blood witch this time, because Blaise would know all about the personal lives of the Pureblood ones. Giving Blaise a fake name would buy him some time, so he mentally listed off every witch he'd ever met during his time at Hogwarts, pretending he was agonizing over the decision to tell the truth. Finally, he remembered the quiet Ravenclaw girl who'd sat in front of him in Charms sixth year. "All right, if it's so important to you… Lisa Turpin."

"Ah, yes, Lisa Turpin. Describe her face," Blaise challenged. Well, crap. Draco had only ever looked at her from behind.

"She's got these big, beautiful eyes," he began, trying to sound lovestruck.

"Which are what colour?"

"Brown," he guessed, because statistically that was the most likely option.

"They're blue. I slept with her in sixth year, and I'm surprised you even remembered her name. Try again." Of course: the other problem. Any Ravenclaw or Slytherin witch from their year in Hogwarts had probably either slept with Blaise or turned him down, and Draco didn't know what colour eyes any of them had.

"Fine, I can't think of another one. You can say whatever you like to Pansy, but I'm not going out with anyone."

He wasn't even sure why he was lying to Blaise, aside from the fact that it was a fun challenge. He wasn't really ashamed to be going out with Hermione, or he wouldn't want to see her in public. There was the fact that Blaise would probably make fun of him, but that wasn't a big deal either. It was just too soon to tell anybody. Hermione might change her mind and decide she still didn't ever want to go out with him, and if that happened, Draco would rather get over it privately than have everybody up in his business asking what happened.

Blaise grinned, undeterred. "Have it your way, mate. The game is on."

"Is that all you came here to talk to me about?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Why is everyone suddenly so wrapped up in my love life? If I had one, that is."

"That's just it: you haven't had any for such a long time. I'm not sure who exactly you mean by 'everyone,' but it's come as quite a shock to me that someone wants to date you. You really need to make sure you get married by the time you're thirty, though, or I owe Pansy five hundred galleons."

That was the great thing about bets with his friends – they always had really high stakes.

"You made a bet with Pansy? What were you thinking?"

"I don't know, mate. You'd been with Astoria for almost a year, and I thought it was a sure thing. Also, I was very drunk."

"Well, I've still got three years and a month, so don't worry too much about your precious galleons." He scowled into the fire. "And especially don't worry about my personal happiness. I wouldn't want you to waste a second of your time wondering if I'm lonely or something."

"Oh, I wasn't going to."

"I have to go to work now."

"Bye, Malfoy. When I find out who you're dating, I expect you'll hear about it. From Pansy."

He just walked away, and a cackling Blaise Zabini pulled his head out of the fireplace. Most of the former Slytherins didn't have a whole lot of really wicked plotting to do anymore, so they had to grab onto any scrap of wrongdoing that came their way. At least Draco could feel good about giving Blaise an excuse to rub his hands together maniacally.

Also, Blaise loved to gossip even more than his wife, and that was a lot: Draco was sure he would have told Pansy immediately no matter what. This way, he'd have to go on at least one date with Hermione before any of Blaise's informants would be able to rat him out. And once he'd gotten a date, he didn't care who knew.

He took the Floo to work, where he had a rather eventful shift. He'd only been there for a few hours when his family's eagle owl, Ocypete, tapped the window with its claw.

He was pretty sure that his parents still didn't know he worked there, but that owl could have found him in another dimension if his mother said it was urgent enough.

He strode to the front of the store and let it in, and it allowed him to the take the letter before biting his hand savagely, just for fun. Ocypete was afraid of his father, and it loved his mother, but it loved the taste of Draco's blood even more. He swatted at it as it flew up to hover out of his reach, dodging his hand gracefully despite being approximately one million years old. Maybe if they had a different owl, Draco would send nicer letters to his mother, but he had to read all of hers while scowling and nursing his wounded fingers, so they always seemed to sound really annoying. This one wasn't annoying, though, it was scary:

_Draco,_

_Your father and I have just received some extremely troubling news. It seems that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has uncovered new evidence about his activities during the War, and they've scheduled a new trial. They came to collect him this morning, and I won't see him again until after it's over. This is weighing quite heavily on my mind, and I would like you to come to Monaco and visit me for brunch tomorrow at 10:00, so that we may discuss this and other issues. Please let me know at once if you will be able to come._

_All my love,_

_Mum_

Draco went back to the counter for a quill and scribbled an affirmative response, then braved Ocypete's wrath once again to attach it to the creature's leg. For his efforts, he received a similar bite on his other hand. Now both of Draco's hands were bleeding, and he still had to serve coffee for four more hours; he wasn't very good at healing spells, so he had to make do with summoning some bandages.

Apparently, Hermione's pressure on Dawlish had been successful: he'd come forward with his information in record time. On some level, Draco was relieved that his father was already in Ministry custody, since he no longer had any hope of opening the box in time. It was also disquieting, though, because this portion of the plan suddenly felt a lot more real.

His father was going back to Azkaban, and Draco had been instrumental in putting him there. The worst part was that there would be no way to conceal his involvement after the Ministry cleanse. Out of respect for his mother, he had to tell her himself before she found out from someone else, but he didn't want to do it until after the trial.

At the end of his shift, there was another knock at the door, this time from Will. There was little to no chance of Will biting him, so Draco let him in.

"Hi, Drake, what happened to your hands?"

He shrugged. "Owl attack."

"Happens to the best of us," he said sympathetically. "I've come to talk to you about that plan I mentioned. Can we sit?"

Draco agreed, and they chose a table in the deserted shop. "What's your plan?"

Will glanced around furtively before he spoke, as if they weren't the only people in the entire building.

"Now, I haven't told any of our friends except Bee, so don't spread it around, but I have an idea for how we can get Muggle music back in the public favour. I've talked to Don from the CD shop, and I've got a few other friends who play Muggle instruments, and they're all willing to help me with that part. All we need is a venue, so that's why I'm coming to you."

"You still haven't told me what you're going to do," he pointed out. It sounded complicated, but what else was new?

"Okay, get ready for this." He paused and held up his hands, brimming with excitement. "We're going to have a concert."

Draco didn't know what that was, and Will seemed to realise that when Draco didn't get as excited as he'd expected.

"A concert is one of the best ideas Muggles ever had. Sometimes it's just one musician, and other times it's a whole bunch, but it's where they all get together and play live music for legions of screaming crowds. It's really intense when you're there." His hands were flitting around in a series of seemingly random gestures that he must have thought emphasised his point in some way. On the contrary, Draco found the motion distracting. "So, my idea is, we'll have everybody pick a really good song and perform it. It'll be free to get in, but we'll have booths set up where people can buy the music we're playing and other merchandise. It's going to be huge, Drake. The money we make is going to save the Basement, not to mention the publicity."

"And you want to have it at Malfoy Manor?"

"You've got it. Bee went to a thing there one time, and she said there's plenty of space outside on the grounds. You can have a cut of the profits from whatever we sell, plus my eternal gratitude, and also it'll just be so great that you can't say no. If you're about to say no, don't."

"This isn't really the best time to be doing things like that at the manor," he said. Although it kind of was, on second thought: his father wouldn't be there to muck it up. The mood was going to be tense, though, to say the least.

"Why not? It's for a good cause. Doesn't your mum host charity benefits there all the time?"

"I don't know how my mother will feel about this cause." He had a pretty good idea, though, and it wasn't favourable.

"Didn't you tell me you'd do whatever you could to help? Maybe you could fib a bit."

Will's tone was almost pleading, and Draco could tell they didn't have any other options that were as good as this. Malfoy Manor had been Britain's pure-blood stronghold for centuries; even the Dark Lord had known that, despite his general distaste for the Malfoy men. A Muggle music concert at Fort Voldemort would send a message like no other venue could.

"You're asking me to lie to my mother?" he asked, like he wasn't already doing that.

"No, no, you misunderstand me. I'm asking you to let her see for herself how great this is going to be. Trust me, Drake – this is what it'll take. I saw the look on your face at Phoenix Day, the first time you saw a guitar played in person. Imagine that times a million for hundreds of people, all getting that feeling you had. It'll be like nothing anybody's ever seen before."

He remembered it quite clearly, the trance, and he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to share it as Will described. He reckoned he might as well entertain the idea, at least. He could give it a try. "When do you want to do it?"

"I want to get all the performers together within the week and start rehearsals right after that, and then we'll do it in a month or so. I've already got most of the preparations laid out with the other musicians. That was a yes, right?"

Draco looked down at his hands on the table. He was worried about how this would mesh with his father's upcoming trial, which hadn't been announced to the public yet. He expected it to make the papers soon, though.

"We'll see," he said. "Probably, I guess."

"That's my boy. I've got to go tell some people you've said yes, but I'll be in touch. See you later!"

Draco hadn't actually said 'yes,' but he couldn't think if a way to convince Will if words weren't working. Will seized his hand and shook it vigorously, grinning from ear to ear.

"You won't regret this," he said.

Draco just nodded again and showed him out. He was still worrying about his family situation, but he couldn't help but get just a little bit excited about this whole thing. It might be a good time.

**

* * *

**

Draco put on his best wizarding robes the next day, without a hint of similarity to anything Muggle-related.

He'd seen his mother wearing Muggle-style gowns, but he still didn't want to look like anything other than a model pure-blood son today. His parents always provided him with an emergency Portkey directly to their house in Monaco, and he activated it and landed in their living room at 9:55. His mother was standing in the doorway, her anxiety readily apparent as she watched for his arrival. She rushed to embrace him.

"Draco," she said. "It's so nice to see you." She kissed both his cheeks and pulled away.

"It's good to see you, too, mum." She'd left behind a few waxy spots of lipstick, and he wiped it off as inconspicuously as possible. "How are you holding up?"

"Better than last time," she said. He took in her appearance and saw that she didn't look nearly as worn-down as he'd expected.

This was already different from the first time his father had been on trial, when her cheeks had been sunken and her skin so pale that he could make out the whole web of veins beneath the surface. She'd looked old and tragic and defeated.

She was visibly worried today, but she showed a resignation that wasn't there before. His mother was a strong woman, and he breathed more easily after seeing the way she carried herself in light of the news. Perhaps he hadn't made the wrong decision.

She led him through the rooms of the much smaller house into the dining room, where their meal was being laid out by the house elves that his parents had brought on holiday. They sat and ate, and Narcissa managed a smile as she told Draco of her favourite cafés and boutiques.

He had to dodge a few pointed questions about his love life, too, which made sense. In fact, he was surprised every customer at the Raven wasn't hounding him about it. He was getting there, all right? These things take time.

After their meal, he decided that it would be a good idea to tell her about Will's plan as early as possible, despite everything else.

"Mother, I'd like your permission to host an event at the manor soon," he said. Maybe he could say it was a benefit for hippogriff bite survivors – hippogriffs had been her least favourite magical creature since his third year.

"Really? What kind of event?" No, he had to tell at least part of the truth.

"It will be for a good cause, to save a local business in Diagon Alley," he said, edging around the issue.

"Which business?" Oh, fine.

"The Basement," he said, trying for a casual tone.

"With Donaghan Tremlett?" she asked. She seemed pleased, to his surprise. "Yes, we've spoken a few times. I didn't realise his shop was in trouble, but a benefit is a fine idea. I'll be happy to help you host it," she added.

Draco knew he'd have to let her do as much possible, since she really loved this sort of thing. He hadn't expected her to be so receptive to helping save a Muggle music store, but they didn't talk much about what either of them liked or did. Especially now that his father was going to be out of the picture, he realised he really should be making more of an effort on his relationship with his mother.

"Thank you," he said. "I'd love to have your assistance." She smiled and placed her hand over his on the table.

"I'm glad to see that you're working on something like this, darling. We need to uphold the family name in these changing times, and it's nice to see you trying to help people."

He knew she meant well with the comment, but truthfully it stung a little bit, what with the implication that helping people wasn't something he'd ever tried to do before. It was more or less true, but his own mother didn't need to be pointing it out.

"Well, I really must be going," he said. Since he was being honest and all, he reckoned he might as well tell her the rest and get it over with. "I've got a job now, and I have to go to work soon."

Her eyes lit up as she gasped with joy, and Draco would have told her about this sooner if he'd had any idea it would make her so happy. "That is wonderful news! I've been so worried about you. All you did for so long was sit around the manor and look morose, and then you broke up with that woman – her name escapes me – but now, you're finally taking responsibility in your life. Where do you work?"

She was so happy about the fact that he had a job at all that he didn't even feel awkward telling her it was at a coffee shop. He'd wildly misjudged his mother's reactions to everything so far, and he gave up on trying to predict them.

"I work at a coffee shop in Diagon Alley, the Raven."

"Oh, with Magdalena." Draco's mother had the opposite of Will's nickname disease, with the only exception being her sisters, and he almost wanted to introduce them just to see the look on his face when she refused to call him anything but William. Maybe even William Gregory, if he got smart about it. "She's a fine woman. You know, I'd actually met her years and years ago – her sister, Olympia, was in Andromeda's dormitory in school. We were close for a time." Draco had never heard of a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin existing in the same family, but he supposed stranger things had happened. He suspected the friendship had terminated around the time of Andromeda's marriage. "Well, you can go to work, then. I've prepared a Portkey for you."

He started follow her, but a display of photos caught his eye on the way, all of which were of him. There were photos of him as a baby all the way up through last year, and even one with Astoria.

He picked one up, which he knew was his mother's favourite picture of all time. In the photo, three-year-old Draco was poking three-year-old Pansy with a toy broomstick in the manor's garden, and she was screaming at him to stop while throwing rocks in retaliation. A disgruntled white peacock was ruffling its feathers in the background, as though the whole scene were below its dignity. His mother had been laughing too hard to hold the camera still as she'd taken it, so the ground was shaking beneath the two toddlers, making the picture even cuter as they tried to keep their footing.

But that wasn't why he'd picked it up: the blurry quality had jogged something in his memory. He thought of the photo from his Dark Mark ceremony and the disproportionate severity of his mother's punishment directly after.

"That's my favourite," she said, indicating the frame in his hand.

"I know," he said. He placed it back on the shelf. "Mother, will you answer a question honestly?"

"Of course, dear."

"Why were you punished after I got the Dark Mark?"

Her smile faded away, and the old ice queen defense mechanism snapped back into place. "You already know the answer to that question, and I don't understand why you suddenly wish to discuss the painful past with your poor mother, especially at a time like this."

"Father thought it was because you tried to stop the ceremony," he said, shrugging off the blatant guilt attack, and she nodded reluctantly. "But I think there was another reason. Where were you when it was happening?"

She let him see the old pain as she spoke. "I was in my rooms, as always. You know I never liked to watch those barbaric rituals."

"I don't think you were. Please, mum, just confirm what I already know: you were there, with a camera." She lowered her eyes slowly in response. "And you were punished because the image was unclear."

"I wasn't surprised it came out that way," she remarked after a brief silence. She reached out to cup his cheek in one cold hand, tilting her head as she admired his face. "I couldn't even look in the camera." She took back her arm. "How did you know about that picture?"

Draco suddenly regretted bringing this up. "I can't tell you that right now."

"I haven't missed the coincidence that you suddenly know about this while your father's on trial," she said, shrewd as only a mother can be. He made to respond, but she cut him off: "It is not necessary to defend yourself, Draco. When the Dark Lord asked me if Harry Potter was alive, it didn't even enter my mind to say 'yes.' The world we have now is the one that I wanted for you." She paused, drawing her shoulders straight across. "If what you're doing is anything like that, then perhaps I can understand. Now, you must be going."

She embraced him once more, then gestured to the Portkey on the floor.

"I love you, Draco. I shall see you soon."

"I love you, too, mother."

He had the strangest thought as he glanced at his mother one last time: he hadn't seen her this happy since before he went to Hogwarts.


	14. Touchy Feely

**Chapter 14: Touchy Feely**

Were there no breaks for Draco? He didn't think it would be too much to ask for the universe to just let him be for a day or so. One time many years ago, his father had woken him from a nap by yelling "no rest for the wicked!" and then laughing in a profoundly evil fashion, and he couldn't help but think about that now. He didn't consider himself wicked, though, or at least not anymore.

Anyway, he still wasn't getting any rest. When he came home from Monaco, there was a special edition of the _Daily Prophet_ waiting for him in the entryway. The headline read: _Death Eaters Back on Trial: New Evidence May Put Four Behind Bars_, directly above mug shots of his father and the others. Draco had barely seen his father for months, so it was strange to see the man scowling up at him in black and white.

He turned to the section on Lucius Malfoy and was dismayed to find a photo of his father being taken away by the Ministry, mostly because it featured his mother. She wasn't clutching at his cloak, as he'd remembered her doing when his father had been arrested before. She was standing very straight in the doorway, hands clasped tightly and stoic. He was glad she wasn't crying, because the papers had no right to print photos of his mother in tears, although they'd done it before.

He finished reading the whole spread, and none of the information came as a surprise. It was mostly allegations that he'd thought were known and dismissed when his father had previously been pardoned, but apparently they'd actually been swept under the rug. His father was being charged with the murder of Florean Fortescue and the destruction of a bridge in Muggle London, which had killed twenty-two Muggles. Draco had known his father was there when Fortescue was killed, but no one had been aware of who cast the curse until now. The article made it clear that Fortescue was the more important crime of the two, which Draco found oddly distressing; apparently, the life of one wizard was worth more than those of twenty-two innocent Muggles.

If someone had asked Draco ten years ago, he wouldn't have been able to give an exact ratio; "the wizard is worth more," he would have said, as though it were obvious, but there was no way to calculate how much. Was it 2:1? 5:1, even? Even back then, Dumb Stupid Teenage Draco would probably have said 22:1 seemed excessive. Now that he was Grown-Up(?) Logic Draco, he decided it didn't make sense to believe something he couldn't even quantify.

For example, work today was going to be approximately five times as difficult as usual. His family was back in the spotlight just in time to remind everybody that they were still the bad guys, and it would be a few more weeks before his involvement with Hermione could be known. He steeled himself for the inevitable backlash and took his leave.

He was surprised to find Maggie waiting for him in the Floo room at the Leaky Cauldron. She rushed to his side as soon as she saw him.

"Draco, how are you doing?" she asked, reaching forward to touch his hand. Physical contact really was the rule around here. He got that touching someone was a subtle way of saying 'hey, I don't think you're disgusting,' but he'd just as soon let that be understood. He wasn't sure how they even thought of doing it; Draco had never in his life had the idea enter his mind that he might want to hug someone for no discernible reason or squeeze their shoulder reassuringly or grab their hand just because their dad was going back to jail.

"I'm fine," he said.

"It's all right if you're not, and you can come to me whenever you're ready to talk about this, if you want to."

He nodded. If there would ever be anyone he'd want to talk about this with, there was a chance it might be Maggie, but he wouldn't feel like verbally acknowledging the situation until it was over.

"That's not why I'm here, though," she continued, shooting a wary glance over her shoulder. "I didn't want you to have to walk in alone today."

"I told you, I'm fine."

She gave him a sympathetic look. "Well, it's just that there are some reporters waiting for you outside the shop."

He wasn't surprised, and it was a good thing his mother was out of the country. He didn't know how they'd gotten a photo of his father's arrest, but he'd noticed it was taken from an aerial view off the property. He knew their house was well-guarded enough to keep reporters from bothering her.

"A lot of them?" he asked.

She squeezed his hand. "Yes, quite a few."

He straightened his spine and shook off her hand. "Let's go."

They went outside, and it began. The Leaky Cauldron was only a block away from the Raven, so his appearance on the scene was noticed almost immediately. He wished he still had a heavy cloak with a hood to pull over his head, but Maggie wrapped her arm around his shoulders, and this time he didn't mind the contact. It helped, partially because it meant he didn't have to watch where he was going anymore. He kept his head down and let her guide him through the crowd, watching the pavement slide by under his feet.

"Mr. Malfoy, did you know what your father was doing?"

_Like mosquitoes_, he thought. _Like wasps_.

"How is your mother reacting to the news?"

Flashbulbs burned spots inside his eyelids, and he raised an arm as a shield while they descended upon him in a frenzied pack.

"Mr. Malfoy, will you be testifying in the trial?"

Quick-quotes quills were hovering around his head, staying close in case he said anything.

"If you knew, why didn't you come forward?"

"Do you support your father's actions, Mr. Malfoy?"

"The public has a right to know, Mr. Malfoy! Did you assist your father with these horrible crimes in any way?"

"Draco is not on trial!" Maggie yelled. "He has nothing to say to you. Let him pass!" She turned her head to speak more softly near his ear. "You don't have to defend yourself, Draco. You don't have to say a word."

He nodded and kept his mouth shut, putting one foot in front of the other as they marched toward the safety of the shop. They could scream at him in the streets, but they wouldn't be allowed inside. Bianca was holding the door open when they reached the Raven, and she grabbed Draco's shoulder and pushed him inside.

"Get in, get in," she said, and cameras were flashing on her, too.

"Miss, what is your connection to the Malfoy family?"

"Did you know about this when you hired Mr. Malfoy?"

"Stay back! This is a private business, and you have no right to be here!" he heard Bianca yell, as Maggie steered him to the rear of the building. She took her arm off and moved to stand in front of him.

"I know you didn't have anything to do with this, dear." She couldn't have known that for sure, he thought. She just trusted him. "They have no right to harass you like that, but just remember that you're innocent, no matter what happens."

Well, there was something Draco didn't hear very often, or in fact ever. It sounded nice.

Bianca hurried over to join them. "I'm so glad you're finally here. They've been out there all day just waiting for you," she said."We've barely had a customer all day, what with them blocking the door and making us look like a crime scene or something, but they don't care about that. Will's trying to get the _Prophet_ to pull their guys, but he can't help with anybody else. Thanks for coming, mum."

Maggie nodded. "Do you want me to stay with you today, Draco? I could even work for you, if you want to go home."

"Maybe that's a good idea," Bianca added. "They might try and sneak somebody in, pretending to be a customer."

"No, I'll be fine," he said. "You two go home."

Maggie looked like she wanted to try and change his mind, but she didn't argue. "All right. Don't hesitate to call me if you need anything, and don't answer any questions. Do you know how to use a voice Floo?"

Draco didn't even know what that was, so he shook his head.

"I'll show him," Bianca volunteered. "Could you watch the shop for a moment, mum? I wanted to talk to Draco anyway."

Well, great. Draco didn't feel like talking at all, and he knew what she wanted to ask him about. He followed her into the back room anyway, where she pointed out a large candle.

"A voice Floo is inspired by Muggle telephones – it works almost the same as a regular Floo-network fireplace, with the Floo powder and everything, except you can't actually see the other person. No one can go through it in either direction." Draco nodded. "I'll write down mum's and my Floo addresses for you just in case you need us, and I'll put Will's work, too. Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Yes," he said, stoic like his mother in the photo.

"This is part of your work with Hermione, isn't it?" She peered at him closely. He didn't even blink, so as not to give anything away. "Fine, you still can't talk about it. Can you at least tell me if this is good or bad for your plans? Did you know this was going to happen?"

She waited patiently, and finally he gave a curt nod.

"Is this what you wanted?"

"That's not the right question to ask me right now," he said, scowling like his father.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it that way."

He knew that, and he felt kind of guilty for being so short with her. He glanced at the door and leaned in closer, just in case. "Nothing that has happened today has interrupted our plans."

"Good," she said.

They walked back out front, where they could hear the crowd clearly outside. Maggie tried one more time to convince him to go home, but he wasn't having it. His options were here and the manor, and he didn't think he could handle being there right now. Maggie and Bianca went out the front door to brave the crowds again, and he stared at his favourite wall, keeping his eyes off the front windows. He cast a Silencing Charm on the front of the store so he couldn't hear the reporters, but the dead quiet was almost worse.

Then, he felt a tug on his arm, but there was no one there. He looked around frantically, drawing his wand in the direction of the disturbance, and a disembodied hand appeared under the counter and pointed toward the back room. After a very confused couple of seconds, he realised it was Hermione's and moved as she'd indicated. There probably weren't going to be any customers anyway, as Bianca said.

He held the door for a second before entering so she could slip in, and then he closed it behind them. She took off the Invisibility Cloak and immediately began to fret, wringing her hands and shifting her weight like she couldn't even remember how to stand, and her eyes looked all red and puffy.

"Have you been _crying_?" he asked, tact-free as usual, and she looked away to hide her face.

"No, I've just been – worried. I was hoping I'd be able to warn you before this happened, but Dawlish didn't tell me he was going to act so soon. I think he really wants this to be over, seeing as he doesn't know what's coming next. I was waiting outside for someone to open the door, and I couldn't believe what they were saying to you. What he did… it's not your fault."

He shrugged; this was really weird. He was almost certain she'd been crying, but he couldn't figure out why unless it was about him, and that didn't make any sense. She couldn't possibly care about him that much. She was still rambling, though, so he tried to keep up.

"I know how it feels to find out about things like this from the _Daily Prophet_. I know I shouldn't speak ill because Will works there, but they've still got some really vicious writers on their staff, printing all sorts of nasty lies about anybody they can. I never dreamed they'd try and involve you and your mum. I'm sorry."

He opened his mouth and closed it again. No, talking about it still didn't really feel like an option.

A thought occurred to him: it was possible that physical contact wasn't just for showing people they weren't icky. The strength he'd felt when Maggie put her arm around him in the street had been powerful, and maybe touching could also be for when you had to say something but couldn't talk. He hadn't managed to get hold of a hugging practice dummy yet, but he figured he could do his best.

She was watching him and biting her lip, and it looked like she was about to start talking again just to fill the silence, but he crossed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. She froze for a second, but then she relaxed and rested her head on his shoulder. Her hands moved up from his lower back in slow circles. Yes, he understood hugging now.

"Don't apologise," he said, but she didn't respond for a moment. She was shaking, and he hoped she wasn't going to start crying again. He wouldn't have a clue what to do about it.

"No," she whispered, "I'm sorry for never once trying to see things from your point of view. We always just dismissed you and treated you like scum, but I didn't realise until recently. I never even thought about how hard it must have been growing up like that, Voldemort living in your home, and your father…"

Oh, come on. Really? She was seriously feeling bad for _him_? How did she possibly find time in the day to empathise with every living creature on the planet? She was the one who got tortured and almost killed. He was the one who'd called her a Mudblood and yelled insults at her in the corridors. She was correct, of course: it was no fun having the Dark Lord crash on his couch, but he was still on the wrong side. He didn't want to speak yet, but he knew he had to say something, or she'd think he was just accepting her apology or agreeing with what she'd said, which would be ridiculous.

"It's true on both sides," he said at last. "When you're fighting in a war, you can't afford to think about your opponent, or you won't be able to do what needs to be done. That's how my father could do the things he did."

It was also part of the reason Draco hadn't personally been able to do much of anything. He'd never killed, especially not Dumbledore, and he hadn't even been able to say the name when he'd known full well that the man on the floor was Harry Potter. It wasn't because he'd been getting all kinds of gushy empathy about how Potter must have been feeling in that moment, but he'd never been able to get into the wartime mindset.

Every time he was asked to do something, his brain seemed to shut down, and he couldn't think of anything except getting away as quickly as possible. He'd always thought his responses were cowardly, but maybe that wasn't the whole story. When he'd decided to help Hermione, he'd gotten the same feeling as he had for a split second when he'd lowered his wand with Dumbledore. He hadn't done much, certainly nowhere near as much as he could have, but there was some fleeting scrap of honour he could hang onto in the things he'd refused to do.

"Do you regret this?" she asked.

"No," he said, and she hung onto him more tightly for a second. He bowed his head and moved a hand up to feel her hair. Well, this was as good a time as any. "What does your hair smell like?"

She looked up in surprise. Then she started laughing, and luckily there weren't any tears in her eyes. "I use pear-scented shampoo, so that's probably it."

"That makes sense."

"Why? Do you like it?" she asked cautiously.

He nodded. She blushed and looked away, and then she slowly pulled herself out of his arms.

"Well," she told the floor awkwardly, "I just wanted to come and make sure you were all right. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you," he said. She waved before Disapparating.

Mystery solved. Draco hadn't really liked pears before now, but he guessed they were pretty okay, as far as fruits went. He'd completely forgotten that their date was tomorrow with everything going on, but he wasn't so worried about it anymore. All he had to do was open his mouth and she started blushing, so it was clear that she liked him (for some reason).

He walked back to the front of the store and smiled through the window at the reporters outside. They'd find out what was happening soon enough, and until then, everyone who mattered knew he was doing something right.

**

* * *

**

Draco had the day off on Saturday, so he had the entire day to get back to being nervous again. The _Prophet_ that morning had announced that his father would be tried on Monday, which was good in its own way. This part would be over soon, and it had to actually happen before he could begin to deal with it. Once his father was behind bars, he'd think about what that meant, but denial felt just fine for right now.

He spent a great deal of time picking out his outfit for the night, with the knowledge that Ristorante Infine was a fairly upscale establishment. It didn't have a dress code, but a tie wouldn't be out of place. Once he was dressed, he called Gully into his chambers.

"Yes, Master Draco?" she asked.

"Gully, I'd like to tell you something," he said. The elf waited with rapt attention. "Do you remember Miss Hermione?"

"Yes, Gully likes Miss Hermione."

He hadn't had the chance to tell a soul that he'd finally gotten a date, and he really wanted to say it out loud, even if all he could find was a house-elf. "I'm going on a date with her tonight."

"This is happy news that makes Master Draco so pleased," she said, and he grinned like a fool – nobody was here to see it, after all. No one ever had to know. "Does Master need anything else from Gully?"

"No, that's all."

"Gully is so thankful that Master is telling her good things," she said with a bow. She was clearly flattered that Draco had called her in just to tell her something, and sharing personal triumphs with house-elves was the kind of thing Hermione would do. If she had house-elves, of course. He grabbed a cloak just to make sure any lingering reporters couldn't catch him on the way.

He usually preferred to take the Floo to Diagon Alley, but he decided it would be a safer option to Apparate directly into the alley behind the restaurant. He walked across the grounds at 6:50, pulled his hood tight around his face, and set the world spinning.

After landing on the pavement, he checked around carefully to make sure he was alone. He kept his head down as he walked around the building and stepped inside, but he didn't see Hermione yet.

The maître d' dipped his head in greeting. "Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes," he said, "but I'm waiting for someone."

"Let me know when you're ready to be seated." He offered a polite smile and then returned his attention to a flower arrangement on a nearby table.

Draco alternated between watching the door and the clock on the wall. At 6:58, Hermione walked in, and she really did look nice. Her hair was done up, and she was wearing a tight dress in an orange colour, but it wasn't that bright orange that attacks your eyes. Her legs were bare, and she was wearing those spike-heel shoes like the ones the shopgirl had been wearing at Boudreaux. He wasn't completely sure of their purpose yet, but he sort of liked the look of them. He realised he was still wearing his hood and pulled it down, and she spotted him.

"Hi," she said. She couldn't even make eye contact, much less keep her hands still.

"Hi." He straightened his tie. "Is the reservation in your name?"

She nodded, and he followed her to the counter.

"Good evening, madam," said the maître d'. "Are you ready to be seated?"

"Yes," she said. "I have a reservation for Granger."

He nodded and walked them to a fairly secluded table, and it wasn't near the kitchen or anything. Hermione picked up her menu and tapped her fingers against the sides. Her legs were crossed, and her top foot wouldn't stop twitching. Not that he was judging her for it or anything, since he was in the same situation, but it was really obvious that Hermione didn't date a whole lot.

They'd have to get some wine in her before she started knocking things over or burst into tears or something, just from the stress of sitting at this table and trying to talk. It was funny, though: seeing her so nervous made Draco feel better. One of them had to be the calm one, and it was clearly going to be him. A waiter took their drink orders, and they decided on a bottle of expensive red wine.

Draco stared at his menu until their waiter returned with the open bottle and poured two glasses. Hermione thanked him and grabbed hers in short order to take a substantial drink.

Then it was time for small talk. He could do this. It was easy. "Have you been here before?" he asked.

"Oh, er, just once. A few of us came here to celebrate when Bianca found out she was expecting."

There was a fairly lengthy silence, since Draco wasn't used to being the one who had to keep the conversation moving. Everybody else he'd been hanging out with lately was the type to cover up the silence with lots of words, whatever they could come up with. Usually Hermione was like that, but Draco figured it would be fair if it was his turn for a little while. He tried to imagine what Will would say.

"That must be exciting for them. When is she due?"

She peeked at him over the menu. "Not 'til December."

"At Christmas?"

"Yes, it should be late in the month."

Draco tried to figure out what he could talk about to make her take her share; this could get awkward if he had to keep coming up with pleasant, meaningless things to say one right after the other.

"What's good here?" he tried. Finally, she set down her menu.

"I tried the carbonara the last time I was here, and that was good. I think I'm going to get what Bianca had, though, the gnocchi with caprese salad."

"Then I'll get the carbonara."

By the time their waiter returned to take their orders, Hermione had almost finished her first glass of wine, and Draco refilled it in a hurry. She seemed to be relaxing a bit; she hadn't knocked anything over yet, at least.

"Thanks," she said, before taking another long drink. "Did you ever finish those books?"

"Yes, I liked them. They were –" come on, something insightful – "interesting." Well, maybe next time.

"Which was your favourite?"

"The happy one," he admitted, a bit reluctantly.

"I knew you'd like it!" She hit her small hand against the table in excitement, and Draco realised there was still plenty of time to upset the wine glasses. They only vibrated, though; no harm done. "I told you it's for everyone."

"It was surprisingly funny," he said. Nope, not that time, either. If he couldn't sound like a literary genius, perhaps Draco could at least try to sound like a bloke who maybe could read. He didn't want to be too hard on himself, though; after all, she was just as out-of-practice in the romance department.

She saved him anyway, by launching into a rambling dissection of her favourite parts, and he smiled as he listened. She was talking and moving her hands around and smiling back, and she was cute when she was excited about something. She mentioned that it had been made into a "movie," and he'd heard that word a few times before.

"What's a movie?" he asked.

"Oh, I forgot you've never seen one before. A movie is basically a play, but the Muggle actors perform it in front of Muggle video cameras. It's different from plays, though, because they make everything look like it's really happening in the location it's supposed to be, and a lot of times they'll even film it there, and they have special effects to recreate anything you could imagine. They can make explosions, film underwater, and even make it look like the characters can do magic."

"How?"

"Do you know what a computer is?" He shook his head. "Computers are the tools that Muggles use to do a lot of the things they can do. They can take the scenes they film on the cameras and edit them on computers, and they can sort of draw things onto the scenes so it looks like it's really there."

"That sounds interesting, actually." If Draco had a thesaurus, he could have looked up some better synonyms for "interesting." He didn't, and he was currently doing that strange thing where you know you're using the same word way too much but can't seem to stop.

"It is. You should watch a movie – I think you'd like it a lot, and I've a few you could borrow. There's a spell to project the film onto a wall instead of on the telly like Muggles normally do."

"Will you watch a movie with me?" he asked. Nobody he knew went to plays alone, and he couldn't imagine why he'd want to do so with a movie.

She blushed and glanced away. "But then we wouldn't really watch it," she muttered, half into her wine glass.

"What?"

"Nothing, never mind, just thinking about when people watch movies together." She took another sip. "Anyway. Will you let me choose which one?"

"I don't know anything about them, anyway, so I don't know how I'd pick."

"All right. I'll think of a good one, and we can watch it."

"Good."

The waiter brought their salads, and they began to eat as Hermione told Draco about some of her favourite movies. It was definitely more natural for her to be the one speaking the most, because she had all sorts of opinions about everything. He liked the way she spoke and the things she said, and he thought that over time, he could probably get to a point where he talked almost as much as she did in conversations. Right now, it seemed like a better idea to listen. He'd actually been doing quite a bit of that lately, and he was getting rather good at it. They received the second course and lapsed into a brief silence as they ate. After a moment, she brought up a new subject.

"So, Will told me about the concert. I think it's a fantastic idea."

"It's not bad," he said. "It might be… interesting." _Stop it, Draco!_

"Do you know what song you're going to do yet?" she asked.

Oh, Will, that crafty little bastard. This was the first Draco had heard about his being selected to perform, but it made sense: Will probably knew that if he told Hermione before he told Draco, then Draco would have to do it or he'd look like he was backing out.

"No, I'm still deciding," he said. He'd find a loophole later. "Are you going to perform?"

She sighed, looking conflicted. "I'm not sure yet. I don't know how I'd do on stage," she said softly, as though she were revealing some big secret. "Will really wants me to, especially because my name would help bring in crowds, but it's a bit intimidating."

This seemed like a good opportunity for Draco to say something nice and be honest at the same time, and he could think of at least three people in his life who wanted him to do that. "I think you'd be good. People like you." He paused. "Also, you're beautiful, and people like that, too."

She almost choked on her gnocchi when he said that, but she managed to recover before she would have launched into a full-blown coughing fit, which was a relief. She grabbed her wine in a hurry. "Thank you," she managed after a moment, but she didn't stop blushing for a long time. "You know, I think I'll do it. It'll be fun."

"Good," he said.

They ordered dessert next, and Hermione still hadn't run out of things to talk about now that she'd gotten into it. She even laughed when he told her a few stories about his other friends, like that time Blaise bet Draco his entire estate that the Holyhead Harpies would catch the Snitch – and lost. Draco still hadn't collected on that one, but he was thinking he might still do it someday when Blaise least expected it. Hermione talked some about the youngest Weasley, whose name turned out to be Ginny, and Draco didn't mind too much. Despite marrying someone so unfortunate and being in a family of losers, she didn't sound so bad.

They'd finished their whole bottle of wine and all of their food, and it was finally time to go. The waiter brought the bill, and Draco fished in his pocket for the token that was connected to his family's bank account.

"Do you want to split it?" Hermione asked, as though that were a normal question.

"What?" he asked back, since really it wasn't.

"The bill? I have money." She was already reaching for her purse, and he held up a hand to stop her.

"No, I've got it," he said.

Maybe she was insane, he thought, and that's why she'd agreed to go out with him. He'd wondered late one night if it was actually her unemployment that had done the trick – perhaps some major debts that she could fool Draco into paying off for her – but that couldn't be the case after this little display. In his rational mind, of course, he knew that Hermione Granger dating him for his money was about as likely as her dating him because his great-great-great grandfather had slept with Marie Antoinette (which was true, by the way, and the sexy gene was hereditary). Then again, he also knew that at least part of her reason was because he was nice to his house-elves, and that was almost as ridiculous. Anyway, the heart of the matter was that it didn't make sense that she liked him. He didn't know why yet.

"Oh, don't give me that look," she said. "It's not that weird. I don't agree with the notion that men should have to take on the whole financial burden in relationships. Not that it's wrong for people to buy things for each other, but if it's something that's taken for granted and only goes one way, then it's almost like someone's assuming that all women need to be taken care of."

"I've just never had someone say that to me before," he admitted, trying to get his train of thought back on the rails. "This may come as a shock to you, but I actually have a lot of money, and sometimes that's people's favourite thing about me."

She smiled, even though it was less of a joke and more of a true fact. "Well, I just want you to know I'm not expecting you to buy things for me. I have money, too. But you can pay for this one if you want to." He liked that phrasing: clearly, she anticipated that there would be more dinners like this.

"I want to," he said.

The waiter came back and tapped Draco's token with his wand, charging the account, and they left the restaurant. The street was busy, since it was Saturday night, but all the reporters would be gone by now.

"I was thinking I'd walk home," Hermione said. "It's a nice night."

He studied her face, trying to make sure he understood her meaning. "Do you want me to walk with you?" he asked.

"Yes, that's why I said that." She smiled, smug like the complete know-it-all that she still was. As he'd grown older, though, he'd discovered that someone who knows a lot of things is very useful to a bloke who hardly knows anything at all.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"In the flats over by Madam Malkin's. It's only about a five minute walk."

"What if we walk slowly?" he asked boldly. She smiled and touched her cheek, then smoothed her hair. He realised he could count on her to touch her face every time he did something right, which was helpful for future reference.

"Let's find out," she said. He fell into step with her as she began to amble leisurely down the block. Her hand bumped against his, which might've been an accident.

"Do you live by yourself?" Her little finger brushed his again, and that was definitely not an accident, so he grabbed her hand before she had a chance to pull it back again. She laced her fingers through his.

He didn't want to get too sappy about it, but this was actually rather nice, walking in the dark and holding hands on a warm night. He looked at her by his side and wondered idly if she would let him kiss her tonight. He wanted to wonder about other things, too, but he was trying not to think about that right now. It would only lead to disappointment in the short-term.

"Yes, and it's kind of nice. I've had, er, flatmates in the past, and they tend to be a lot messier than I am," she said evasively, and he was pretty sure she was referring to that unfortunate Weasley character. A happy thought struck Draco: what would Weasley's face look like right now if he could see this? An angry beet – that's what it would look like. The angriest beet in the whole history of the world. "I do have a cat, though. What are you smiling about?"

"Nothing," he said. "Cats aren't too bad. They're much nicer than owls," he added, thinking of his childhood with Ocypete.

"They are! You know, no one has ever agreed with me about that before. Maybe if you meet Crookshanks, you can be the only person other than me who has ever liked him."

"In that case, he sounds terrific," he said sarcastically, but she smiled anyway.

"Crookshanks is misunderstood," she explained, and Draco thought maybe he could relate to this cat. They were both stuck with slightly unfortunate names, and neither of them got along with Potter or the Weasleys.

There wasn't a whole lot of really meaningful conversation on the way to her flat, but they still walked very slowly, and they still held hands, and it was good.

"This is my building," she said, pointing to a complex on the street behind the robe shop. At the front door, she tapped a stone on the wall with her wand and let them into the lobby, and then she started talking to the floor again. "Well, thank you for dinner. I had a really good time. I think we should do it again soon."

"Me, too," he said.

She waited a second, and then she moved close to him and placed her hands on his shoulders. She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek, but afterward she lingered there a little longer than necessary, so he turned his head and kissed her for real. She was surprised, judging by her sharp intake of breath, but then she moved her hands over his shoulders to touch the back of his neck. He realised his arms were still at his sides, and so he brought his hands to her hips and dragged them slowly up her sides, over her waist and her back, and her whole body shivered when he ran his thumb along her jaw.

When she pulled away at last, she looked kind of like a happy beet. Were beets fruits or vegetables? What a stupid thought. Draco's brain wasn't working anymore.

"All right, well, so then, I, er," said Hermione. At least Draco wasn't the only one having trouble thinking. She managed to pull herself together once they were finished staring at each other like a couple of giddy teenagers. "Good night, Malfoy. Owl me."

"Good night, Granger. I will." He watched her walk up the first flight of stairs to her flat, glancing back at him every few steps, and then he walked outside and Apparated onto the grounds of the manor.

How was his love life? Pretty great, actually, thanks for asking.


	15. The Round Track

**Chapter 15: The Round Track**

It was funny how life seemed to move in a circle so much of the time, even down to the orbit of the earth around the sun. Of course, the earth didn't actually move in a circle; it moved in an elliptical pattern, and the universe was constantly expanding and pushing everything farther and farther away, and so it never returned to the exact same spot again. And on the earth were all the little people, stuck to the ground and never quite standing in the same place twice. It only seemed like they were.

Outside the Ministry of Magic on Monday morning, it occurred to Draco that Florean Fortescue may have died in the very same spot where he and Hermione had set the events in motion to bring him justice at last. In the greater context of the universe, though, he was mistaken – it wasn't really possible at all.

He'd been asked to testify in his father's favour and refused, and then he'd been invited to attend the hearing and declined. Instead, he stood at the front of the mob that had gathered to await the decision. A magical fence surrounded the closest spot to the Ministry where Apparition was possible, since this was where everyone inside would go after they were dismissed. He knew that there was at least one person in this crowd whose life had been messed up by his father and those other guys because he was there, but there were probably more.

Bianca had lent him a pair of Will's Muggle sunglasses for the occasion, and they were large and dark and hid a good portion of his face. That and an oversized hood made him hard to spot, and no one had bothered him yet. Maggie had forced him to take a few days off work, which was really the last thing he wanted to do, but she said he wouldn't be welcome to come back until Wednesday – unless he wanted to talk, then he was always welcome, et cetera. But he didn't want to talk. In the past several weeks, Draco had learned that it was easier to make friends when he shut up most of the time, and it was working out so nicely that he didn't want to fuck it up. He listened in on some of the conversations around him, and they were generally about how despicable those Death Eaters were and how much everybody hoped they would rot in prison. It was a long wait, with nothing to do but stare into the empty circle.

His mother was the first figure to appear the centre of the guarded area, and her eyes found him almost immediately despite his half-hearted attempt at a disguise. He'd seen his mother break into a full run only a few times in his life, but she did it then, and when she reached him she threw herself on him despite the chest-high barrier between them. She pulled off his hood and grabbed fistfuls of his hair.

"It's done! It's all over!"

He put his hands on her back and looked over her shoulder, where a wizard in deep purple robes appeared and tapped his throat with his wand to amplify his voice. The crowd fell silent, and his mother went very still in his arms.

"In the matter of Hector Crabbe, Oliver Goyle, Jarvis Nott, and Lucius Malfoy, the court has reached a resolution." The man paused, and Draco drew in a breath and held it. "All four men have been found guilty as charged and will carry out the remainder of their natural lives in Azkaban Prison."

His mother said something, but he couldn't make it out over the joyous roar from the crowd. Suddenly, he was yanked off his feet by his stomach and twisted mercilessly through space, and he landed so hard on the packed dirt of the manor grounds that painful shocks shot up to his hips. His mother let go of him and took a few steps back. He finally let out his breath, and then he turned away from her and promptly vomited.

"I'm sorry, Draco," she said. "I tried to warn you."

"I figured," he said after a moment and spat on the ground, trying to rid himself of the taste.

"I think my holiday is over." Her voice was tense and high. "I'll be moving back home today."

"I figured that, too."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"I'll see you inside after you've cleaned up." He heard her footsteps fade in the direction of the house, but he stayed with his hands on his knees, eyes on the ground. He didn't want to live with his mother again, but she had no reason to stay in Monaco without his father, and he knew she wanted to be around him right now. Especially considering the fact that it was his fault his father was going to prison, the least he could do was spend some time with her.

Finally, he went inside, but he didn't see her for the rest of the day. She had the house-elves bring trays of food up to her chambers, and he followed suit, but he heard her moving rapidly around the lower floor for a few hours in the late evening, banging things around and occasionally ranting out loud. Once she'd gone to bed, he went downstairs to find that his father's study was empty. The house-elves were carrying bag after bag of rubbish down to the incinerator in the cellar, and everything looked a whole lot cleaner.

**

* * *

**

The next morning, most of the _Prophet_'s front page was occupied by that gut-wrenchingly private moment when his mother had clawed at him outside the Ministry, but at least there were still no tears. She didn't come down for breakfast that morning, and he decided he would go and check up on her later. When he walked out of his dining room, though, he was surprised to find Blaise and Pansy standing together in his living room. They all stared at each other for a second, and Pansy spoke first.

"Hello, Draco," she said, like needles. "We let ourselves in." Yes, he noticed. "Our limited respect for you has led us to wait until the completion of your father's trial before staging our intervention."

"Your intervention," he repeated.

"It has come to our attention that the person you are dating is… Hermione Granger," Blaise said, with some difficulty.

"I think you should take a seat," said Pansy.

"What? You act like you want me to find somebody to date, but then when I finally do, you're in my living room having interventions and offering me a seat in my own bloody chairs. This is ridiculous! I will remain standing."

"Look, Malfoy, I can see how this may for some reason seem like a good idea to you." Blaise paused briefly, looking confused. "Actually, I really can't. At all."

"Neither can I," Pansy agreed. "This is absolutely outrageous."

"I didn't ask for your opinions, and I don't care what either of you thinks about this or anything else in my personal life."

"How can you be so blinded by your misplaced infatuation that you can't see how stupid you're being?" she asked.

"I don't even know why this is intervention material," he said. "Why is it so stupid? Can you explain to me why it's such a bad idea?"

They stared at him agog, and then they looked at each other, and then they looked back at him.

"It's really obvious, Malfoy."

"Can't you figure it out for yourself?"

His dad was gone, his mother was hiding alone in some dark corner of the house – probably sifting through old photos and trying to figure out where it all went so wrong, and Draco couldn't tell her because she wouldn't really listen – and here were his two best friends, trying to tell him who he was allowed to date. The one benefit to his parents being incapacitated was officially negated, because here were two substitute control freaks telling him what to do. His blood was running hot already, rushing past his ears in a deafening roar, and it was _not a good time_.

"No, I'm done with this," he growled. "Unless each of you can give me a really good reason why this is the wrong choice, you'll both just have to either learn to deal with it or stop talking to me. I would like to continue our association, but I do have other friends now, and I don't have time for people who can't trust my judgment when it comes to my personal affairs." Pansy started to speak, but Draco thought of one more thing. "Hold on. All your reasons must be relevant to the past five years and must not contain the words 'blood,' 'Gryffindor,' or 'hair.'" She closed her mouth again and scowled.

"Isn't she still friends with Potter?" Blaise tried.

"Why does that matter?"

"What if you have to spend time with _Harry Potter_?" They all shared a disgusted look at the thought of it before going back to the matter at hand.

"I'm not going to make you hang out with her, so I don't see why I should have to be around Potter," he reasoned.

"But what if this gets serious?" Blaise continued, looking extremely uncomfortable. "I mean, I don't really want to think about this, but you're not that young anymore. It wouldn't be unreasonable for you to be looking for… What if – Just, what if."

"We've been on one date. Of the three of us – that's me, Granger, and you, the completely uninvolved third party – you are the only one who is thinking about… that."

"How do you know? What if she wants to, er. Because of your money." Blaise couldn't seem to get rid of the disgusted look on his face: the whole time he was talking, it looked like he was trying to chew a lemon.

"She almost didn't let me pay for our first date!"

"Well, what if she wants to… settle down right away, and eh, you know, with the, eh – "

Pansy rolled her eyes and helped him out. "What Blaise is trying to ask is what if you get married and make vile half-blooded babies together."

"Like I said, nobody is thinking about that except you two, but why would these _extremely_ hypothetical babies be so vile? Just because they'd be half-bloods? Almost nobody is pure-blood anymore, and if you really cared about that, Pansy, you would have had children yourself. This is so typical – you expect all of us to accept your decisions, and we have, but then you still want to tell everybody else what to do."

He could tell from the look on her face that he was getting somewhere, but she wasn't ready to give up. "No, they'd be vile because they'd be half-Granger."

"And now we're back to where we started. Why is Granger so bad?"

"When did you start thinking she wasn't?" Blaise asked, because Pansy was still too busy looking at Draco like he was completely bonkers.

"It's been a fairly recent development, I'll admit. But if you got to know her, which is not something I'm asking you to do, you would see that she's the opposite of vile."

"Why her?" Blaise continued. "Why is she so great? You must see that this poses problems. Everybody is going to be really freaked out. I mean, people who've never even met either of you are going to be shocked."

"They'll get over it, and so will you."

"You skipped the first question," Pansy pointed out maliciously. "Tell us what you _like_ about her."

Draco looked at each of them in turn, and they were both looking at him expectantly. He really didn't want to verbalize what he liked so much about Hermione, since it was going to sound lame no matter how he put it. "I like her. That should be enough for you."

"Can't you find somebody else you like?" Blaise asked at last, but his tone was resigned, and Draco knew Pansy was the main obstacle now.

"I don't really care. I've already found one, and she is interested in dating me, and it's actually taken me quite a long time to do that, as you have _both_ noticed. I don't see why I should go out and spend another few years finding someone almost as good just because you say so."

Pansy huffed indignantly. "Clearly, there can be no reasoning with you at this point. Over time, as your relationship becomes tedious and mundane and you begin to notice her substantial flaws, you will see that it wasn't worth it to drag yourself through the mud like this."

Draco was starting to get angry again, but he tried to control his tone. Injecting any sort of emotion into this discussion would make him appear less logical, especially to Pansy. "Why are you still talking about blood, Pansy? Don't you get it? You've thrown away your own! You dumped Nott, Goyle, Flint, all the way back to me in fifth year, and then you started dating half-bloods, and then you dumped all of them, too. And did I say one word about it, any of the times you've shagged somebody without the right blood? I have _not_, because I understand that it's none of my business who you date. I know you can't think of another reason why you aren't supposed to like this, but at least be honest about it and admit there isn't one."

She gasped and then narrowed her eyes. "I expect an apology when you come to your senses," she hissed through her teeth. She turned on her heel, threw a handful of Floo powder savagely into his fireplace and left before anyone could say another word.

"So, she's really upset about this," Blaise observed, after a moment of silence. Draco was still angry, though.

"Yeah, and what about you? Have you got any more bullshit to spew at me before you realise you're wrong?"

"No. I still think this will collapse on its own in short order."

"And if it doesn't?" he challenged.

Blaise gave him a hard look, and they stared each other down for a minute. Finally, Blaise's expression softened a just a little, and he glanced away. "Then it doesn't."

Draco nodded. "Was that the only intervention you had planned for today?"

"I wish it wasn't, because it didn't go so hot, but yes. See you, Malfoy." He made to follow Pansy through the Floo, but then he stopped and began to speak again without turning around. "If this is how you're talking about things, you must think this is important. I don't understand why, but if that's the case, then I think you should try not to fuck things up. If you can manage that for a while, we'll go from there. Until then, we will continue as though this weren't happening."

Draco nodded at the back of Blaise's head and watched him step into the fire. He wasn't sure what would happen with Pansy either way, but he was certainly not going to apologise. She could determine on her own if she wanted to continue their friendship in light of Draco's decisions. He wasn't going to change his mind.

After they were gone, Draco sat in his living room and stared at the fire. There was nothing to do and nowhere to go. He couldn't really leave the manor that day, since he was sure to be accosted by reporters out in public. The worst part was that he had to respond to this now. His dad was in jail, really for real. Really forever.

He thought about his mother first, but she didn't seem to be doing too badly. She'd certainly wasted no time throwing away everything that had belonged to Lucius, and he wondered how long she'd secretly hated her husband. Actually, he could narrow that down to two specific points in time: either the day Draco got the Dark Mark or the day the Dark Lord came to their home. Who'd have thought – pledging full allegiance to the cause of pure hatred was not always good for a marriage.

He thought about money, but that wasn't something he had to worry about, either. They would probably be selling the house in Monaco in the near future, which would enlarge the substantial cushion they already had. People kept handing Draco cheques at the Raven, and if worst came to worst, he might even start cashing them. At present, he liked to keep them all in a drawer. It seemed like the most natural thing to do: they were for such tiny amounts that it would be pointless to bring them to Gringotts. Oh, all right – it was also because he knew that those weren't tiny amounts to Maggie. Draco was no stranger to guilt, and he didn't need any more of it, so he'd just as soon save his cheque pile for stabilising wobbly tables or something. So, money wasn't the problem.

How did Draco feel about all this? That was the one he had to think about because it was the final question, and everything else was already in order. For the past several years, his relationship with his father had consisted of asking for money and getting it. His father had been in favour of a marriage to Astoria Greengrass, and he'd made his displeasure clear when that fell through, but it wasn't like they talked to each other. The main reason was that Draco deliberately avoided him nearly all the time, and he also avoided thinking about why he might have been doing that. It was like stuffing cheques in a drawer: doing anything else would've felt weird and wrong. When his father went and sold him out to the most evil person ever to exist, it was unpleasant and all, but it didn't register as a betrayal; unlike his mother, he'd been aware for some time that he was not the first priority.

He knew better than to compare himself to the heroes out loud, but in the years leading up to the Second War, it had felt like being locked in a really fancy cupboard under the stairs. Only, when people found out about Potter's experiences in those overemotional _Prophet_ articles, they were all like, "oh, Harry Potter, how awful! They locked you up and nobody ever asked what you wanted. By the way, will you sign my tits?"

Nobody ever wanted Draco to sign any part of their body. Poor Harry Potter: his mean old adoptive parents never let him have an ice cream. Oh, yeah? Well, Draco's dad _killed the ice cream man._

Anyway, things were different now. There were people that Draco could call up for some sympathy right now or at two o'clock on the morning, and they wouldn't even be mad that he woke them up. There were people who didn't think he was a hopeless case.

He wondered if it was wrong for him to feel relieved. A lot of the time since the War, nothing had quite felt real – like he was living in this weird dreamland where everybody had to pretend it was ten years ago and nothing ever happened. _Dark Lord? What Dark Lord? I don't remember any snake-blokes trying to take over the world, and if they had, I'd be over it by now. Why aren't you?_

Now he finally could be, because now it was actually done. The rest of his work with Hermione was a whole different thing, and it felt nice to start something new. He didn't notice his mother come into the room until he felt her weight beside him on the sofa.

"We'll be allowed to visit him later this week. It's strange, now that he's gone," she said. Draco nodded. They both stared at the fire together for a while, and then she said something so quietly that he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. "Does it make me a bad wife if I don't miss him?"

There was nothing he could say to that, and he figured she knew it. He used his new people skills to figure out that this was one of those moments for touching people, so he put his arm around her. After another moment of silence, he spoke.

"Mother, I have to tell you something." He paused. There wasn't a good way to say this. "The Ministry revealed the evidence about father because of something I did."

"I thought so," she said, soft and calm.

"Are you mad at me?"

"What exactly did you do?"

This would probably be easiest if he just said all of it at once and very quickly. "I gave the Dark Lord's personal file to Hermione Granger, and she used it to blackmail the head of Magical Law Enforcement into using the information he already had. Now that we're done with that, we're going to take down half the Ministry." He stopped to look at her face: extreme confusion. "Also, we might be dating," he added as fast as he could, and then there was the longest silence ever. First, they stared at each other, and then Draco looked around the room, and then they stared at each other again. This would be the perfect time to yell "just kidding!" and have Lucius jump out from behind a chair, except it wasn't a joke.

"This is the strangest day of my life," she said, after several minutes.

"Are you mad at me now?" he asked.

"No, but I think I'm going to go lie down." She stood and backed away, keeping her eyes on him, and he didn't blame her. He'd be wary, too, if someone had replaced his son with a creepy look-alike who was the complete opposite of the old one. Then, she turned around and walked slowly from the room.

Brooding was something that Draco hadn't really had a chance to do for a while, so he did it then. Before he could get into it, though, something weird happened to the fire: Hermione's face appeared. It gave him quite a shock, and she looked concerned.

"Hi, Malfoy," she said.

"Hi, Granger," he said, recovering from the surprise.

She pressed her lips together and cringed a little bit, and he imagined that whatever she'd planned to say had probably gone out of her head. "Are you all right?"

"Worrying about me again?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"I'm fine. It's all over," he said blandly, looking away.

"Well, not quite," she pointed out. "That is, if you still think you could meet with Shacklebolt with me."

"I'm going to, but this is part of something very old." She was confused, so he forced himself to elaborate. "However you lot were at the end of the War, that's me right now."

She nodded. "That makes a lot of sense, actually. It feels like you've finally got closure?" He shrugged. "Is your mother back home?"

"Yes."

"How is she?"

"Last night, she incinerated everything my father ever touched."

"I'm pretty sure that's a good sign," she said. He shrugged again. "So, er." She was out of things to say, probably because Draco wasn't talking much, but he didn't want her to leave.

"I don't want to be here right now," he said. "They won't let me go back to work until tomorrow."

"Do you want to go somewhere?" she said, brightening a bit as she realised what he was implying.

"I can't go out in public or the press will find me." So, that was out. Maybe she could just stay on the Floo and help him brood.

She thought for a second. "Well, if you wanted to, that is, I mean. You could come over here," she said quickly.

"To your flat?"

"If you want."

He hadn't meant to invite himself over, but it was a good solution, now that he thought about it. There were possibilities. "Can I watch a movie?" he asked.

She smiled wide and nodded. "Yes. You can watch any movie you want."

"All right," he said. She pulled away for a moment so he could come through, and then he walked into her flat. It was small, but not as small as he'd thought it would be. There was an awkward moment where she looked at him, and he looked around, and then the ugliest cat he'd ever seen stepped into the room and meowed at him. He stooped to pat it on the head, and when it started to purr, it sounded like a death rattle.

"Why does everybody hate your cat so much? Are they judging it on its looks?"

"I don't think Crookshanks is a bad-looking cat," she defended. "But mostly they hate him because he hisses at them and bites."

"He isn't biting me."

"Yeah, it's a little weird, actually."

"Animals can tell when someone doesn't like them," he explained. He wasn't surprised the cat liked him because he was sending good vibes in its direction. _Good cat, I hate Weasley too, I am so sorry that you had to live with him. Poor kitty…_

"I guess that's true," she said, and he stood back up. "So, all my movies are on this shelf."

He followed her over to a large bookshelf, and there were tons of thin, glossy boxes and a few thicker paper-covered ones.

"I don't really know what I'm looking for," he confessed, overwhelmed by the selection.

"How about something funny?"

He shrugged. She fished around for a moment and pulled out one of the thin cases, which she handed to him. It had two funny-looking and poorly-dressed Muggles on the cover, and it was called _Annie Hall_.

"Is it about these two people?" he asked, trying not to sound too disgusted.

"Yes, that's Woody Allen and Diane Keaton. Woody Allen wrote the film."

"Are those their real names? Do you know these people?"

She laughed. "No, they're famous in the Muggle world. Most people would recognise them."

"Doesn't it ruin the movies if you already know who all the Muggles are in real life?"

"Actually, it hardly ever does. Good Muggle actors are able to make you forget that they aren't their characters, if that makes sense, even if you still know who they really are."

"What is this one about?"

"It's about how those two people fell in love, and they wanted to be together, but it turned out they were just too different."

"That sounds sad."

"It isn't, though. It's funny."

"Why are they too different?"

"Annie Hall is supposed to be free-spirited but absent-minded, and Alvy – that's the bloke there – is so neurotic and tense all the time that he can't stop thinking about himself long enough to do anything else."

"Well, then how'd they fall in love?"

"Do you want to watch the movie, or do you want to hear me explain it?"

He sighed. "Watch it."

"Okay, then stop asking questions, and you'll find out," she said, and she looked excited. She motioned for him to sit on her sofa, and then she opened the box and placed it on her coffee table to reveal a CD inside. She tapped the CD with her wand and motioned to a blank section of her wall, and a large image appeared with some words near it. She pointed to the word "Play" with her wand, and it started to move.

"Movies are CDs, too?" he asked. How confusing.

"No, they just look the same. This is called a DVD."

"Why do Muggles always name things with a bunch of a letters?" And furthermore, how did they tell their stuff apart if it all looked the same? What if their CDs and DVDs all got out of their cases and mixed up, and they never knew which was which again? Wasn't anyone thinking of these things? Ugh, _Muggles_. Maybe they weren't dumb, but they sure were short-sighted.

"They stand for things," she explained. "DVD stands for Digital Versatile Disc, and CD stands for Compact Disc."

"Oh."

She joined him on the sofa. It was a small sofa for only two people, which was good, because there was none of that awkward moment where you don't know if you should sit right next to someone or leave a little space between you. A series of unfamiliar symbols appeared on the screen in succession, then a list of names came up, and then the man from the cover appeared and started speaking directly to the viewer.

"Does he know we're here?" he asked quietly, and she laughed.

"No, he's talking to anyone who might be watching the movie."

"Why does he sound like that?"

"He's from New York, a Muggle city in America. That's how they sound there."

"Are you sure this is happy?" he asked, listening to the tragic opening monologue.

"Yes, just watch it." He did, for a minute, but the main character kept talking about things that Draco had never heard of.

"What's a roller coaster?"

"It's like a funny kind of Muggle train, but it only goes around in a circle, and it moves very fast and drops very suddenly. They ride it for fun."

"That sounds horrible," he said. She pointed to the movie with her wand, and it stopped moving.

"It doesn't matter for the movie what a roller coaster is, and anything that does, you'll be able to understand after a minute. Just ignore all the Muggle stuff and listen to what the characters are saying to each other. All right?"

"All right," he said, and she started it moving again. He kept coming up with new questions, but he didn't want her to get annoyed and stop the movie again because it was fascinating the way it worked. It was like she'd made a window into another world, and everything looked so real that he had to keep reminding himself that it wasn't actually happening. He leaned forward and forgot where he was. He felt pity for the main character, and it was awkward and unfortunate, but it kept making him laugh anyway.

Sometime later – Draco wasn't sure how long – the image faded away, and the screen started showing names again. He knew Hermione had been watching him, but she stopped when she was caught.

"So, did you like it?" she asked. If she had looked at him at all, she should have known the answer to that.

"I liked it, but you were wrong. It's sad." In fact, he didn't know why she had ever thought it was anything else.

She tilted her head, considering. "Yeah, I guess it is. It's strange the way you remember things over time. Maybe in a few months, if someone asks, you'll tell them _Annie Hall_ is a happy movie."

"Who's going to ask me about that?"

She pulled a face. "I will. Just to make sure someone does."

"I can see why Annie doesn't want to marry that bloke," he said. She turned to face him on the couch and wrapped her arms around her knees, drawing them close to her chest, and he turned sideways to face her.

"You don't like him?"

"It's hard to tell whether you're supposed to like him or not. But he proposed to her in a café when they weren't even dating, without even a ring or anything."

She nodded. "Yeah, he does things like that because his character really doesn't understand the first thing about relationships."

"Why doesn't he know better? He's _old_."

"Well, he's had all these other issues since he was a kid, and they're keeping him from figuring things out."

Draco looked over at the blank wall for a second, and then he turned back to Hermione. "He's never going to be able to do it, then, is he?"

"Do what?"

"Figure things out."

"We'll never know. The movie ends here."

"He had a chance with this Annie girl, but then he messed it up. He was too wrapped up in his own problems."

"Yeah. It's not really about Annie Hall or that specific love, really, it's more of a story about a guy who doesn't know how to be happy." They sat still for a second, and Draco was thinking about happiness. "Do you want something to eat?" she asked.

"What have you got?"

"A few things. Come and see." She stood and stretched, arching her back, and then he followed her into her kitchen, which was also her dining room. She opened a large white box, and it was full of food. "Do you want a sandwich?"

"All right." He didn't feel hungry, but he knew he probably should eat something. He didn't want to leave, either, and this was a fine excuse to stick around.

"What do you want on it? I've got turkey, ham, Swiss cheese, cheddar cheese, some vegetables... You can look in the fridge and see what you'd like." She pulled out two plates and placed two slices of bread on each of them, and he surmised that a "fridge" was the white box. He looked into it and handed her a few ingredients, and then he helped her place the food onto the bread. Draco had never actually made a sandwich before, but it turned out to be easy enough. She fixed them two glasses of pumpkin juice, and they sat at her small table, where she immediately began to ramble.

"I know it's nothing fancy, but I wasn't sure if you'd eaten lunch or anything, and I don't know what kind of nice things I really have to cook. I mean, I can cook a lot of things, but it's only lunch, and I don't really know what kind of foods you like. I usually don't eat really special things when I'm by myself here, I guess it's a bit boring, but I don't really mind eating the same thing a lot, it's sort of nice to have a routine."

She stopped speaking and looked confused, like she couldn't remember where she was going with this. Every time she set off talking like that, Draco's first thought was to say something to put her out of her misery, but he held off because he knew it would be really funny once she got going. It was the best when she began with one thing and ended up talking about something completely different.

"Sandwiches are fine," he said at last, and she smiled.

"All right. Good." After they'd taken a few bites, Hermione paused and set down her sandwich. "I feel bad about bringing this up right now, but it's kind of important. I'd like to meet with Shacklebolt as soon as possible. Do you think tomorrow morning would be too soon for you to think about that?"

He'd felt a sense of dread before about these things, but somehow it had gone away when he wasn't looking. It didn't actually matter to him when they went to the Ministry because he wasn't afraid to do it. Everything had worked so far, and even if this didn't go as well, he would still have everything else. He had a sandwich, and there was a woman that he liked across the table, and he had some friends, and his mother was taken care of.

"Tomorrow's fine," he said. Or any day, really. It would all be fine.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Stop worrying about me." File that under _Things Draco Never Thought He'd Say, vol. XXI_.

"I'll try," she said, abashed, but he didn't think she planned to do so at all. "We can meet outside the Raven at seven o'clock and see Shacklebolt first thing – I'll send an owl to set up a meeting today. Bring copies of all the photos and documents."

"I will."

They finished their sandwiches, and Hermione collected their plates and placed them in the sink.

"I have to go check on my mother," he said with regret, because it was true and also because he didn't want to turn into one of those oblivious house guests who can't figure out when it's time to leave.

"All right," she said, and her tone made him wonder if he'd even been close to wearing out his welcome. "I'll see you out." They walked to the small fireplace in the corner of her living room and stopped. Hermione reached up to mess with her hair. "Well, so, thanks for coming over. I'm glad you liked the movie."

"Thanks for showing it to me," he said. He hugged her cautiously, because this moment wasn't quite as obvious as it had been Saturday night, and he wasn't sure what she was expecting him to do. She put her arms around him for a moment, but then she reached up to touch his face. He looked down, and she kissed him this time.


	16. Parachute

**Chapter 16: Parachute**

When he stepped out of the Floo into the manor, he didn't need to check on his mother. She was already there, waiting for him with her arms folded across her chest.

"Draco Abraxus, where have you been?" she asked.

Different responses ran through his head, each one less specific than the last: Hermione Granger's flat, watching a movie, visiting someone. He finally settled on the vaguest of all, despite the fact that it made him sound like an unruly teenager. "Out."

"Why didn't you leave a note?"

"Because I'm twenty-six years old?"

"As long as you still live in this manor, you will inform me of your whereabouts," she said, full of authority. That hadn't actually been a rule since he was fourteen or so, but he didn't see the point in arguing now. He knew that if it wasn't for the whole situation with his father, she wouldn't be making such a big deal. When a pure-blood mother is lonely or upset, everyone knows the only thing that can make her feel better is inventing rules and enforcing them.

"I will," he said patiently. "But that's something I wanted to talk to you about. I'd like to move out soon."

"_What? _Are you getting married? Are you getting married to – to –" She couldn't finish the sentence, and her eyes went wide as all the colour drained from her face, which didn't take long because there wasn't much to begin with. "How could you do this to your mother?" she demanded at last.

"I'm not getting married to anybody," he said, in a not-very-respectful tone. He couldn't help it, though; he'd been on one sodding date in the past two years, and this was the third time he'd been asked about the wedding in so many days. "I'm just going to get my own flat. I don't want to live here anymore."

"And where will you get the money for your own flat?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. Well, wasn't that just fine. His mother was so desperate for contact that she was going to cut off the cash if he moved out.

"How long are you expecting me to live here, mum? Until I'm thirty? Forty? My whole entire life?"

"You have always been expected to live here until you marry," she sniffed.

Technically true, and a pure-blood man his age should have been looking into upscale magical preschools by now, as opposed to convincing his own mother to let him get a bachelor pad. In other words, it was sort of an unusual problem that Draco was having here.

"You're just saying that because you don't think I'll ever get married, which is not flattering, by the way," he said. The sour look on his mother's face was pushing his mind in the wrong direction.

He hadn't missed her word choice, for one thing: if Draco were to hypothetically (_hypothetically!)_ marry Hermione Granger, it would be something that he was 'doing to his mother,' presumably for the purpose of antagonising her. It wouldn't even remotely qualify as something that he might be (hypothetically) doing, you know, because it would (hypothetically) make him happy. His mother was silent for a long moment, and he could tell she was struggling with how to respond to this unheard-of situation – as a rule, Malfoys did not have issues finding brides. He didn't mind, since he was lost in thought anyway.

He had that trapped feeling again, and he'd been getting it every time he was home lately. There were so many suffocating rules about everything he could think of and every decision that should have been his. It was like the pure-blood aristocracy had called a meeting two hundred years ago and mutually agreed that they would forfeit all rights to personal happiness as long as they retained the right to make everyone else miserable, too. In fact, he was pretty sure that was exactly what happened. He pictured his great-great-grandparents scowling across the table at some distant Weasley ancestors and whispering a little too loudly about how they'd never last. Then, this strange thought struck him.

He tried to un-think it, but it was too late: _the Weasleys were the smart ones_. They got out while the getting was good. They were poor and dirty, but at least they loved each other.

Draco loved his mother, but being around her still made him feel worn out a lot of the time. He'd never been inside the Weasley home, but he imagined it was sort of like the Phoenix Day party, except with an uglier crowd of people. As far back as Draco could remember, family dinners at the manor had consisted of eating as silently as possible while his parents tried to find something to nag him about.

The worst part about all the rules was that they had no reason to exist except for their own sake: they were rules to be followed for the preservation of more rules. The only remaining privilege of having good blood was that Draco got the fabulous opportunity to get judged anytime he wanted to do even the most basic of everyday things. He wanted to move out of his parents' house at the age of twenty-six, and his mother was ready to disown him. He wanted to take a woman out for dinner, and his friends were treating him like a Pepper-Up addict.

In addition, his blood awarded him two wonderful options for making himself feel better: pick on other people, or buy himself some more expensive shit to throw on top of his preexisting pile of other expensive shit that he'd already forgotten about. If somebody bought Ron Weasley a fancy racing broom, he'd think it was really special and show everybody – maybe even take out a loan so he could purchase a shelf to put it on. If Draco got another broom, he would be pleased with it for an hour and then toss it in the closet with the rest, and there was no one to show it to, and nobody would care anyway. Now, he absolutely did not want to be Ron Weasley, but some of the things that Ron Weasley had were better than a lot of the _stuff_ that Draco had, and Weasley probably didn't even appreciate it.

"That is not what I think at all," his mother said at last, pulling him out of his trance. "I have every confidence that you will find a well-bred woman to marry in time, but until then, I don't understand why you would want to move out of this house that we have provided for you and move into some dingy little flat. It sounds more than a little ungrateful to my ears."

"Where am I going to find a pure-blood witch, mum?" he asked desperately. "Are you planning to ship one in from another country or something? From a parallel universe, perhaps? I thought you'd accepted the fact that Astoria was pretty much my last chance in that regard. If I do manage to get married, it won't be to someone that you think is well-bred. What will you do then?"

"You would not do that, Draco. If you want to share a few meals with this Muggle-born woman, I will not attempt to stop you; to do such a thing would only push you away. I've dealt with Muggle-borns myself in recent years, and I've found many of them to be surprisingly pleasant. However, I know you understand that to marry someone of such caliber would be disastrous. I wonder, what does Pansy think about all this? I do love her so dearly."

"Really, you're still on that?" Draco was sure there was a large stack of parchments somewhere with _'Mrs. Pansy Malfoy_' written in loopy cursive all over the edges, except they did not belong to Pansy. "Mother, do me a favour and say this out loud: my son will _never_ marry Pansy Parkinson."

"It isn't productive to rule out possibilities for your future. 'Never' is so… permanent." He wanted to scream, but screaming inside was against the rules.

"Fine, forget about that for now. I can't live here anymore. I have a job, and I can pay my own rent if I have to. I'm leaving whether you like it or not." He immediately felt bad for his harsh choice of words, but she collected herself quickly.

"Do you know how much flats cost?" she asked, falling in step with his sharp tone. "On a coffee shop wage, you could afford the bottom of the barrel. You will be back at this manor within a week, begging me to take you back in. And I will, of course, because I understand that family is the most important thing. If this is a lesson that you must learn the hard way, then so be it." Something about hearing his mother talk about the importance of family flipped a switch in his brain, and he couldn't turn it back off.

"You really don't think I can do anything, do you?" he asked, seething, and the words just kept coming like a pot boiling over. "I've had a lot of time to think in the past few years, but none of the things I thought about made sense until I left. The second I left this house, my life got a whole lot better, and the things I was trying to figure out all started falling into place." He paused to gather his thoughts. Standing with his mother in their stupid mansion, he wasn't sad or hopeless or guilty or even confused. He was angry. "I'm sick of everything that made my life turn out like this. I never want to see anything in this house ever again because all of it came from our money, which came from hating everybody and having them hate us back, which came from nowhere! Where did it come from, mother? Can you tell me?

"Can you explain to me why I wasted years of my life trying to help out some lunatic who wanted to kill everybody? A half-blooded lunatic, by the way, and I can't believe any of us ever thought that's what this was about. It was always all about telling people what to do and making more rules to follow, so we can all be more and more miserable by the day, and I just can't figure out why we're all trying so desperately hard to be as unhappy as we possibly can."

She held up her hands like she wanted to stop his words, like saying them out loud was the only thing making them true, and it reminded him of something else.

"No, I'm not finished! Why did you and father both have to think I was dead before you could care about my life more than power or money or whatever it was that made all this so important in the first place? And why did you forget about me the second you found out I wasn't? In fact, whose fault would it have been if I'd died that day? I mean, just think about your logic for a minute! How many pure-blood grandchildren would you get to have, if I had died protecting your right to have nothing but pure-blood grandchildren?"

He stopped speaking at last, and she let her hands fall limp at her sides. They stared at each other with wide eyes for a moment, and then his mother started crying. He felt like the worst son ever, even more so than usual. On the other hand, everything he'd said was honest, and it was too late to take it back.

"I am a terrible mother," she sobbed, hiding her face in her hands, and he got this horrible, awful feeling like maybe he was going to cry, too. "I never forgot about you for one minute, but if you don't know it, then I've really failed. I did my best. I was doing my best for you the whole time, but it wasn't good enough, and now you're _leaving me_."

"I'm not leaving you. I'm just going to go and try to be my own person for a while."

"But then I'll be all alone," she said softly. She was shielding her eyes, with her chin tucked against her shoulder. He knew she was embarrassed to be crying in front of anyone, even her own son.

"I'll visit you," he said, relenting.

"But you – hate – me," she gasped.

"I don't hate you, but you can't make me live like this anymore." No, he was not backing down, no matter what. His mother took a few deep breaths and looked at him seriously, fanning her eyes with both hands.

"You can have a flat wherever you want," she said at last, sniffling. "I'll pay for it."

"Thank you," he said. He didn't have anything else left to say.

"I have to think about a few things," she said. "We will be visiting your father on Friday morning."

He watched her leave the room, with her palm pressed over her mouth.

After she was gone, he decided he was glad he'd managed to say all those things. It felt good to finally tell her what he really thought of being the Dark Lord's errand-boy, especially since that job was made up of being told to kill people and then getting punished for not doing it. It was stressful, to say the least, and the whole thing with the Dark Lord's blood status was something that had bothered him pretty consistently over the past few years. If Hermione Granger was a Mudblood, Weasley and Longbottom and his father were all pure-bloods, and the guy who wanted to kill all the non-pure-bloods was a half-blood, then Draco didn't want anything to do with any of that. It made absolutely no sense, and he liked to consider himself a logical person.

He retreated to his room and began to prepare for the meeting tomorrow, gathering the information on the Department Heads who had probably been his father's blackmail targets. In addition to Dawlish, there were Clarissa Edgecombe, Head of the Department of Magical Transportation, and Albert Runcorn, Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes; however, Dawlish was most important because his Department was by far the most powerful. Draco made copies of everything they would need and went to bed, worrying about all different things.

**

* * *

**

At ten to seven, Draco Apparated outside the Raven to meet Hermione.

"Good morning," she said. He could tell she was anxious, but as always he could feel her determination. "Do you have everything we'll need?"

"Yes. I think we should focus mainly on Dawlish, though. I don't see how Edgecombe and Runcorn could do anything now from their positions, if they'd even want to."

"I agree, but I don't think any of them will want to do anything now. After all, their master plan was setting up a situation where they _wouldn't_ have to work. This is more about justice being served for their crimes. I've made our appointment, so let's go." She took his hand and Apparated them to the Atrium, and they got plenty of strange looks all the way up to Shacklebolt's office. They were escorted in by his secretary, and Shacklebolt stood to greet them.

"Hello, Miss Granger. It is always a pleasure," he said, shaking her hand. Then he looked at Draco, and his face set into distrust. "And Draco Malfoy. I do not think we have been formally introduced." Draco shook his hand stiffly, and he offered them a seat in front of his desk while he sat on the other side. "Let's get straight down to business. What is this information that you have come across?"

Hermione nodded to Draco, and he produced the folders he'd prepared the previous night. Shacklebolt's face grew darker and wearier as he leafed through the documents until finally his forehead was resting on his hand, and he kept shaking his head in dismay.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Granger," he said at last.

"What are you going to do about it?" she asked. Her tone was calm and professional.

"I will take it into account." He folded his hands on top of the documents, covering them up like he was trying to block them from his view.

"What exactly does that mean?" she asked. "I didn't ask what you'll take into account, I asked what you'll _do._"

The Minister sighed. "We've already scored a major victory thanks to your work. Now that Dawlish, Edgecombe, and Runcorn are no longer under the thumb of those men, I expect that they will make better decisions for the future of their Departments."

"The future of their Departments," she repeated slowly. "You're not even demoting them."

"I would prefer not to take such extreme actions until I see how they behave when they are not being coerced."

"With all due respect, Minister, the four Death Eaters who were controlling Dawlish and the others didn't even have access to any actual blackmail. They said they did, and these Department Heads just believed them. I don't really see why someone else would want to target Edgecombe and Runcorn in the future, but in my mind, it stands to reason that nearly anyone could coerce Dawlish."

"I will keep a much closer watch on him in the future."

"What if they ask for something they don't need, like another raise? Will you say no or sign the papers?" She stood up to place her hands on Shacklebolt's desk imposingly. Draco rose beside her because it felt strange to sit when she was standing.

"As always, I will make such decisions on a case-by-case basis." He kept his body still and maintained eye contact, unaffected by Hermione's threatening posture.

"What about the sexual assault? I have documented proof of statutory rape in Dawlish's case."

"I have seen the photos, and they do not carry names or even exact ages. Unless one of the women depicted steps forward to take action against him, there's nothing we can do."

"Of course, there is! You can fire him!"

"Miss Granger, I can see that you are extremely upset about this, but people do not have high confidence in the Ministry at present. Believe it or not, polls have shown that Dawlish has the highest approval rating out of any of the Department Heads. I know he's made mistakes in his career, but that approval rating has increased even further in light of the new convictions. I hope you can see that it would be unwise for the Ministry as a whole if we were to dismiss him at this time," Shacklebolt explained, with a measure of regret. _Mistakes_, thought Draco. People kept using that word to describe things like blackmail and rape, and he didn't think it was exactly the right term.

"I remember you in the War, Minister," said Hermione. "If there were a Death Eater taking advantage of young girls, you would've been there to stop him before he could lay a hand on her. Why is it different when it's one of your own employees?"

Shacklebolt sighed again and adjusted his wire-framed glasses. "I remember you in the War as well, Miss Granger. I remember that Harry Potter and Mr. Weasley were men of action, but it wasn't always the correct action for the time. I remember you complaining in Order meetings that Harry Potter refused to listen to the voice of reason, and he never stopped to think, and that this was a fault which cost the Order more than one life. To answer your question, my feelings are different now because we can all afford the time to act as you did and think carefully about the consequences of our decisions. My stomach turned when I viewed those photographs, and I am not a friend to John Dawlish; however, the most important objective right now is to keep the people on our side. To distrust the Ministry is to distrust the Minister, and I hope you'll still agree that the loss of my position would be a blow to the values that we both wish to see observed in this building. I believe that Dawlish is no longer a threat to those values. If I am incorrect, I will take further action, and you have my word on that. But now is not the time."

Hermione was still for a moment, looking at Shacklebolt. Her expression was calm, but her hands were shaking just slightly on the desk, and at last she removed them and turned to Draco. "What is your opinion on this matter?" she asked, and it was the scariest question ever.

As far as Draco could see, they were both right, but Shacklebolt was more right. In an ideal world, there would be no one like John Dawlish or Lucius Malfoy or Tom Riddle, but in real life there were plenty. Earlier in the game, they'd sacrificed a chance at Dawlish in order to stop his father, and before that people had ignored his father to stop the Dark Lord. No matter what you did, there was no way to stop all the evil people in the world at the same time because the next one always had a chance to slip quietly away while you were looking at the one who was just a little bit worse. He decided that instead of offering his opinion, he could state a relevant fact.

"We still have this information on Dawlish," he said. "It would not reflect well on the Ministry if it were to be revealed, especially if it came to light that you knew of its existence."

Shacklebolt turned his attention to Draco, and the gentle look he'd been giving Hermione disappeared. "Mr. Malfoy, I will remind you that to publish these photos would shame many young women."

"What if I don't care about that?" he asked, even though he did.

"Then it will look even worse for the Malfoy family that you have access to Voldemort's personal affects. I am giving you the benefit of the doubt because I trust Miss Granger, but there is no way for you to prove that you only recently came upon this evidence," he said, and Draco knew they'd hit a wall.

"If that's how you feel about this, then we will take our leave. Thank you for your time, Minister," said Hermione. She started for the door without looking back.

Draco couldn't catch up to her until they reached the Atrium, where she grabbed his left arm roughly and Apparated them outside her building. He stood and watched her as she paced around in a quick circle, like she'd forgotten where she was and that he was still there.

"I was bluffing about releasing those photos," he said.

"I know." She came to stop in front of the door. "Thanks for trying." She started to walk inside, and he stayed in place while she tapped the wall with her wand. "Are you coming, or what?" she asked, without looking back, and he hurried to catch up with her.

She stomped up the stairs to her flat and threw open the door while Draco followed her at a distance. She collapsed onto her sofa, and he sat beside her.

"Well, I failed. I guess there's a first time for everything," she said, with a humourless smile.

"You put four criminals in Azkaban," he pointed out. Draco was an expert on the subject, and so it was with authority that he knew she was no failure.

"But what about the other ones?" She hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on top like a pyramid, like she was trying to get back her strength through the structural integrity of her body.

"You can't expect to single-handedly fix the whole world and then call yourself a failure when it doesn't work." He couldn't decide what to do with his own arms and legs, and he ended up pressing his palms into his thighs. All he knew was that he had to keep his back straight.

"What do we do now?" she asked, soft and pleading. He had no idea, to tell the truth, but he reckoned he could improvise.

"You have two options, and I won't help with either of them." He was staring at the same blank wall where Annie and Alvy learned that sometimes, no matter how good your intentions and how hard you try, things don't work out. "The first is to release those photos to the press and see what happens, which will probably be at least a year of unrest and lack of leadership while the Ministry tries to get reorganised, and a bunch of women will wake up to a surprise in the _Prophet_. The other option is to take the information and use it to blackmail Dawlish yourself so you can control his actions."

"I'm not going to do those things," she said, and he'd already known that.

"That's what I thought. In that case, there's nothing to do." He opened his palms to her and spread his fingers, the universal gesture of hopelessness, and she lifted her chin off her knee to face him. "So, you're giving up, then?" she accused.

"No, I am _not_ giving up," he said. He was trying not to get too frustrated with her; clearly, she wasn't as used to having her plans fall to shit as he was. "I am recognising that this is something I can't change."

"That sounds like giving up to me," she said, all snide and superior. Likewise, he wasn't accustomed to comforting people when they were taking their anger out on him.

"All right, so far you've blamed yourself and then me for not doing enough, but as far as I can see, we're the only two people who are doing anything at all. Don't even imply that I'm not doing my best here. In case you forgot, I got my own father sent to prison less than a week ago," he said, and her face softened.

"That's not what I meant," she said, but he was just gathering steam.

"Why can't you relax and give yourself a break? You did everything you could. Maybe Shacklebolt's right and Dawlish will just be a regular prick instead of a bad Department Head from now on, or at least for a while. This doesn't have to be your job. Let other people save the world for a little while."

"That's what they said when they wanted me to leave the Ministry," she said, and Draco wondered wildly if he was repeating the same thing Harry Potter had told her years ago. How's that for heroic?

"They were wrong then, but it's true now. You're not giving up. You're just putting this aside to take some time off."

She was silent for a little while, and the sadness slowly faded from her face until her expression was blank. "What am I supposed to do, then? I haven't got a job or anything."

"When was the last time you took a holiday?" She had to think about it, which was a bad sign by itself.

"I don't know," she said. "Oh, I took a week off for Christmas last year."

"You only took a week off for Christmas?" he asked incredulously.

"I had a lot of work to do." He could tell she was embarrassed to tell him that, like he was about to make fun of her for being a workaholic nerd or something.

"And what did you do on your week off?" he asked, since he was over that.

"Well, mostly I helped Ginny with the baby."

Nice, Granger's idea of a holiday was helping raise baby weasels in their natural habitat. He would have gone back to work in a hurry, too, if that's what his time off was like. It was also ridiculous how literally she was taking everything right now, thinking carefully about all her responses so that she could give him accurate information about her vacation time, when that wasn't the point at all. In fact, she'd completely missed the point of everything today: this setback was enough to make her forget everything she'd already done. "You didn't do anything fun?"

"That was fun," she said defensively. "I love her daughter."

"Your new holiday starts now, with no babies and no Ministry scandals. I'll shove those photos in a drawer in case there's ever a chance to use them, and until then, you will celebrate," he instructed sternly.

"What's there to celebrate?" she asked, genuinely confused.

"I've already told you, and so has the Minister of Magic himself! You put four guilty men behind bars, and in the process you removed the biggest threat on the Ministry! Do you need it engraved on a plaque?" She looked offended, so he decided to change tactics. "What is that thing called where we slap our hands together?"

"A high five," she said.

"You are going to give me a high five, because good fucking job, Granger, all right? You did it! You did almost all of everything you wanted to do, and that's more than anybody else I know has done lately. Now that you've done that, you're helping to plan and star in a charity concert to save somebody else's business. I really don't see how you could be doing any more stuff for other people. Now, unglue your hands from your knees," he said, holding up his hand as she had done. She gave him a strange look, and then she started laughing. "I mean it," he said.

She slapped his hand, and it felt weird again, but at least she was happier now. She even uncoiled herself and took a breath.

"Now, what?" she asked.

"Whatever you want." He relaxed, too, now that she was almost smiling again.

"I don't know," she said, clamping her hands back down. "I still think there has to be a way to fix this."

He knew from experience that making Hermione angry was so easy a trained doxie could do it, but making her happy? Distracting her? That was the real challenge, and now that Draco was an adult with a job, he could appreciate the value of hard work.

"Don't regress," he said. "You were doing great a second ago. You didn't fail."

"Are you sure? Because it really feels like I did," she said doubtfully. She tucked her legs under her body as she turned to face him.

"How would you even know what it feels like?" he asked. "I've been there, and you haven't, and I can tell you right now that this isn't failure. You got ninety percent of the way there – what's ninety percent?" he asked, trying to put things in terms she'd understand.

"That's Acceptable," she said mournfully.

"Is Acceptable failing?"

"It depends on what subject it is."

"What? No, it doesn't!"

"It's failing if you could have gotten an 'O,'" she pointed out. Only Hermione Granger, he thought.

"Well, this time, you couldn't," he explained slowly. "If you want to talk about marks, this only brings your lifetime average down to ninety-nine point nine percent. What's that?"

"Outstanding," she admitted reluctantly.

"That's the best you can possibly do. Is it good enough?"

"I guess," she said. She wasn't totally convinced, but he reckoned this was the closest he could get.

"So, you can take a break."

"Maybe," she said. She was smiling, and he knew she really meant 'yes.'

"What's something that you want to do?"

She looked at him for a minute, and then she glanced out the window. "It's a nice day. I want to get ice cream."

"Where can we get ice cream?" He knew a nice place in Paris, but he didn't think she'd want to travel that far.

She surprised him with her response: "Well, my favourite place is in Muggle London."

He was trying to keep an open mind, even though he'd never been there and had certainly never eaten food made by a Muggle. He wasn't sure how they prepared it all, to be honest. "What's Muggle ice cream like?"

"It's the same as the magical kind, only a lot harder to make."

"Then that's what we'll do," he said decisively, trying on some minor courage. It wouldn't kill him, certainly, to take a few bites and act like he enjoyed it. After all, it would be far from the hardest thing he'd done for her. "How do you get to Muggle London?"

"You've never been there before?" He shook his head. "We can take the Floo to the Leaky Cauldron and go out through the back." She stood, and he followed her to the Floo in the corner of her living room.

"Hold on a minute," she said, anxious again. "Are you sure I'm not just quitting because it's hard?" She looked at him imploringly, and he managed to keep from rolling his eyes.

"Are you going to keep asking that all day?"

"Probably," she admitted.

"Then this is the last time I'm going to spend more than one word answering you. You are the opposite of a quitter or a failure. All you ever do is stuff that's hard, and you are a complete workaholic, and if you don't take a break, you're going to drive yourself insane really soon – like, tomorrow. Or yesterday."

"Really?"

"Yes, it's a serious concern."

She gave him another one of those looks. "No, I meant really about the other stuff."

"I have to be at work at four," he said, in his snide prick voice. "Do you want to spend the next six hours in your living room fishing for compliments?"

"I'm not fishing for compliments. If you're so pressed for time, then let's go." He could tell she was annoyed, but she grabbed his hand anyway to lead him into the flames, and then she stopped short. "Oh, I almost forgot – we can't go to Muggle London in robes. You can leave yours here, if you like." She dropped his hand and walked across the room to her closet, where she stowed her robes and put on a thin Muggle jacket. When she returned, he still hadn't moved.

"I can't go out without robes. I'm wearing short sleeves," he said, hoping he wouldn't have to do any further explaining.

"It's pretty warm outside," she said. He bit the insides of his cheeks and looked pointedly at his left arm, and comprehension dawned. "_Oh_… Well, that doesn't mean anything anymore."

"Maybe not to you, but to a lot of people it does," he said. He didn't appreciate all this pity he was getting from her lately. Well, okay, maybe he did a little bit. He just wasn't used to it. Maybe he could take a break from feeling sorry for himself if she was going to take over, and then he could handle the worrying about whether she was doing enough, which she clearly was, and then they'd both have time to go out for ice cream.

"Muggles don't know what it is," she said. "They'll just think it's a weird tattoo."

"A tattoo?" He'd never heard the term used in a non-magical context before, and he wondered how they could imitate something like that.

"It's where Muggles put a special kind of ink into a mechanical needle, and then a professional tattoo artist pierces them with the needle rapidly until it creates a permanent design under their skin."

That sealed it, in his mind. Muggles weren't dumb, but they were certainly quite insane. He didn't blame them for it, exactly; he'd probably go out of his mind without magic, too.

"Doesn't that hurt? What are they for?" he asked, hoping there was some really good reason for doing that, as opposed to the more useless roller coasters.

"Yes, I've heard it hurts quite a bit. They're there to look good, or for personal or cultural meaning."

"What's wrong with Muggles?" There went Draco's tact again, sailing out the window. He was beginning to suspect that it didn't like him, or it wouldn't keep trying to escape. "Don't they invent anything that's useful without being painful or terrifying?"

"Yes, all the time."

"Like what?"

"Like all kinds of things," she said, lighting up. She was so excited to share her knowledge that she didn't have time to be offended, which was probably the main reason their arrangement worked at all. "They've got computers, movies, concerts, telephones, sculptures, and cars, just for a few."

"It still seems like most of the things they come up with are pointless."

"It's boring being a Muggle sometimes," she said. "They have to keep coming up with exciting new things to do, since they haven't got magic. For example, do you know what an aeroplane is?"

"No."

"How about a car?"

"That's what they used to go places in the movie," he said, just to prove he'd been paying attention.

"Right. An aeroplane is sort of like a really big car with wings, and it flies very quickly thousands of metres off the ground. And do you know what Muggles will sometimes do, when they're in an aeroplane?"

"No, what?" The answer had better be 'hide under their seats and cry.' As far as Draco could see, it was the only logical thing to do in that situation.

"They jump out. They have a special sheet of fabric that inflates over their heads so they can float all those tens of thousands of metres down to the ground without dying."

What the fuck. Perhaps Muggle culture was too weird to save, if that was what Muggles did in their spare time. "That is the most insane thing I've ever heard." And boy, had he ever heard some insane things.

"Well, you like to ride brooms, right?"

"That's different. Magic is reliable."

"Technology is reliable, too. The Muggles who jump out of planes have decided that they'd rather accept the risk than go their whole lives without doing it."

"Have you ever jumped out of an aeroplane?" He doubted it, but he had to make sure she wasn't secretly bonkers.

She laughed. "No. It's not a very common thing to do, and my life is exciting enough. But you wouldn't, I take it."

"Absolutely not."

"Not much of a risk-taker, then?" she challenged.

"That's not fair. It doesn't mean I won't take risks just because I don't want to plummet a hundred thousand metres to the ground for no reason, with nothing but some scrap of Muggle fabric between me and death."

"You won't even go outside in short sleeves," she pointed out with a smug smile, and he knew she'd trapped him. He should have seen it coming.

"That's different," he said.

"I'll relax today if you'll do something scary."

"It's not because I'm scared, it's because I don't want to scare other people." That was almost true; mostly, he didn't want the dirty looks, so it was a combination of the two. He didn't like it when strangers treated him like a murderer, seeing as he wasn't one. "You know, I am now officially the only person who still has one of these and isn't dead or in prison."

"You have to go to work at four," she reminded him. "Do you want to spend the next five-and-a-half hours hiding in my living room?"

He scowled at her, but she only smiled in return. Well, fine: if she wanted to go out with somebody who had a big fat Death Eater sign permanently attached to his arm, then that was her decision. He took his robes off slowly and handed them to her, and fortunately he was wearing clothing that could pass for Muggle underneath. She folded his robes and placed them on a chair.

"That's much better. Nobody will know you aren't a Muggle," she said, and he tried not to be offended. "Are you ready to go?"

He glanced one more time at his robes. "I guess."

"Good."

She grabbed his hand again and threw some Floo powder into her fireplace. She led him into the Leaky Cauldron, where he pressed his left arm self-consciously against his side for the whole walk through the building. There were a few curious glances, but that was probably just because they were Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, holding hands. That was reasonable: he still thought it was a bit strange, too.


	17. Fantasy Make Believe Land

**Chapter 17: Fantasy Make-Believe Land**

Hermione led him through the alley behind the pub and tapped a certain brick with her wand, and the wall opened to create a portal to the Muggle world. There were cars speeding past and people walking around half-naked and big, tall buildings and everyone was yelling, and it was completely insane. Hermione took a deep breath and exhaled with satisfaction, as though she could feed on the energy of it all.

"Welcome to Muggle London," she said. They walked toward the street, and he leaned back cautiously. He didn't know how to breathe here yet like she did.

"Can they see us from inside the cars?" he asked. He was trying not to sound nervous, but the machines were faster and sharper than they'd looked in the movie; they looked dangerous and difficult to control.

"Yes," she said. "Muggles have to take special classes to learn how to drive a car, and they can't do it alone until they're a certain age and they get a license that says they can. They're not going to hit us."

"But what if they do?" Splat, he thought. That's what would happen.

She didn't speak to the physical consequences, though: in typical Hermione fashion, she concentrated on the legal ramifications. "They'll probably go to jail," she said, "and they never get to drive a car again."

It eased his nerves, though. He decided that it wasn't in the Muggles' best interest to hit him with their cars, so he was probably safe. In the process of letting his guard down, it also occurred to him that he was anonymous here - just some guy with a stupid tattoo, nobody's son and nobody's enemy.

"There sure are a lot of them," he said. He couldn't stop looking around at everything except where he was going, and he kept almost running into people on the packed walkway. This prompted them to yell at him in Muggle-ese, which seemed to have quite a bit in common with regular speech. It was really quite adorable.

"Watch where you're going, wanker!" one woman called, and he grinned at her and then at Hermione, who was equal parts embarrassed and amused.

"There are over seven million people in London alone, and that's just one city," she explained, tugging his arm so she could lead him in a straight line. "That's more than there are of us in the whole world."

"If there are that many, why do they have to come up with bonkers things to do? They could spend their whole lives just meeting other people." Of course, maybe they didn't want to – they'd only been in Muggle London for less than ten minutes, and already the vast majority of passerby had been tense and irritable.

"I think there are actually too many for that," Hermione said. They'd fallen into step with the crowd now, staying close together and moving more quickly, and people didn't seem to mind them anymore. "If you're one of them, you never really feel like you're alone, and you sort of have to forget about everyone else just to walk outside and stay sane every day."

"Weird," he said. There were plenty of people in Diagon Alley, but he still couldn't go there without seeing at least one person he could identify, and most of them would recognize him on sight even if they'd never met. Muggles could just move to a different city with another seven million people, and nobody would ever know who they were again. He looked at Hermione, who'd sped up a bit too much with a worried look on her face, and she matched the hurried Muggles around them. That seemed to be the norm around here: either everyone they'd passed was late for wherever they were going, or they all were desperately unhappy. He decided that Muggle guy with stupid tattoo wouldn't want Hermione to be like that. He deliberately slowed his pace, pulling her back as she tried to tug him forward.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Slowing down," he said, because it really should've been obvious.

"Oh, right," she said, looking confused. Eventually she matched his speed, and he started thinking about more things that this Muggle guy might be able to do, starting with forgetting his Dark Mark. He stopped keeping track of his arm visibility, and it was liberating to walk around in weather-appropriate clothing without thinking about who might get offended.

Muggle London felt like a fantasyland where you could do anything except magic, which wasn't actually very fantastical, now that he thought about it. In fact, compared to them he was already from fantasyland, and they were the ones stuck in reality. Either way, he had a different set of options than usual. He took his hand away from Hermione and put his arm around her waist instead, which surprised her. It was ironic that he'd been telling her to relax, because that was something he struggled with himself. He decided to temporarily stop thinking about why she kept agreeing to go places with him; instead, he thought about why it was so cool that she wanted to do that and how nice it was to touch her. She caught him staring and blushed, but he didn't even stop.

"Stop worrying," he said. "We're in fake London. Nobody knows or cares who we are. We can do whatever we want."

She tilted her head and considered his words, like she hadn't thought of it that way before. "You're right," she said. "I always forget this is different, since I grew up here and all." She leaned on him, and they slowed down even more, and some more people called them names for holding up the foot traffic. What were they in such a hurry for, anyway? Didn't they know they were living in make-believe world?

"What do they do all day?" he asked. All the Muggles were dressed differently, none of them seemed to know each other, and overall had little in common to his eyes. He wondered if each one had a different job, or if they were just allowed to wear whatever they wanted for work.

"They have jobs," she said. "A lot of them are the same kind of jobs we have. They can work behind the counter in coffee shops or be lawyers. They have hospitals with what they call doctors and nurses, and some of them work in factories where they build cars and other machines. After work, they go out to pubs and watch movies and paint and read and do all sorts of things."

It seemed like a calm and simple existence to him; for one thing, it must've been a lot harder for them to kill each other or burn down houses. "That sounds nice," he said.

"We can pretend for today, but when you do it full-time, I'm sure it's just as stressful as anything else." They walked a while longer while Draco tried to understand everything around him and mostly failed, and he wondered what would be stressful about being a Muggle.

Perhaps it was easier to rob the Muggle London bank, for example. He wondered what it looked like: it couldn't be as advanced as Gringotts, but it would have to be much larger to store money for seven million people. On that note, he realized it must've also been much more difficult to apprehend criminals – for starters, what did Muggle police do if the robbers outran them? There were no stunning spells. He knew Muggles had ranged weapons, but they couldn't just go around killing everybody who stole something and tried to make off with it. Once they caught their suspect, he was at a loss for how they'd prove it without Veritaserum. That was the heart of it, he decided. All the stress in the Muggle world could essentially be traced back to one fact: there was no way to be sure if someone was telling the truth. On a corner that Draco couldn't tell apart from the rest, Hermione pulled him to a stop.

"This is the place I was talking about," she said, indicating a small ice cream parlour across the street.

"Is there a way to get there?" he asked, looking at all the cars in their way. None of them seemed likely to stop.

"That's what's called a crosswalk up there," she said, pointing at a group of straight white lines on the pavement. "Above it, there are hanging lights that change colour. When the light is green, the cars go. When it's red, they have to stop."

Draco had learned the basics of how Muggles made things work without magic, but he was still impressed that they were able to hang lights over a busy street like that and still have them work. On the other hand, he didn't think a little red light would be enough to make them want to stop their cars, especially when they moved so quickly.

"What happens if they don't stop?" Other than the _splat_, of course.

"A law enforcement officer pulls them over and makes them pay a fine."

"So, we can be reasonably sure that they will stop?"

"Yes, almost completely certain."

They waited at the corner, and she indicated another light facing them. "That one's for us. When there's a little person-shaped light instead of the hand, we get to walk across."

"How can they possibly remember all of these rules?" he asked.

"They're just as smart as we are," she explained patiently. "And it's all really quite simple when you live here."

He realised he had no idea how long they had to stand there; perhaps it changed randomly, and they'd get to cross in two hours. "How long do we have to wait?"

"Just a few more seconds," she said. "You're really excited about all this, aren't you?"

He shrugged, but actually it was pretty exciting. At last, all the cars stopped, and the man-shaped light appeared, and they made it safely across the street and into the ice cream parlour. He was immediately struck by the number of machines: they had machines for taking money and holding the ice cream, plus a whole bunch of other ones that Draco couldn't identify. He also noticed that everything was very brightly lit, and honestly, he could get behind some kind of happy medium. For some reason, the magical community liked to keep things eye-squintingly dark and mysterious, whereas Muggles wanted to see every pore of your skin in fluorescent detail. Either way, it gave him headaches.

"The flavours are on little cards over each of the tubs," Hermione said, pulling him forward to look. There were a lot of different options, and there were a few Muggle things mixed in that he didn't recognize.

"What are you going to get?"

"I think I'm going to get chocolate chip cookie dough." She tapped the glass with her fingertips above that flavour's card. "It's my favourite."

"What's cookie dough?" he asked quietly in her ear, because he was pretty sure it would be considered an embarrassingly obvious question to anyone who might overhear. She seemed to be having a hard time not laughing at him.

"Well, do you know how to bake cookies?" she asked.

"Of course not," he said, and she gave up and giggled. "What are you laughing at?"

"I was picturing you baking cookies," she said, smiling up at him. "It's funny."

"Yes, that's me, the comic relief," he said dryly, and she kept laughing.

"Well, anyway," she continued, "when you bake cookies, you start with soft dough. Then you mold it into little, round lumps and cook them, and they flatten out and harden into cookies."

"But you're going to skip that part and just eat the dough."

"Right." As though that were a perfectly normal thing to do. "What are you going to get?"

Before he could answer, a Muggle person started talking to him.

"Nice ink, mate," said a stranger to his left, but he didn't really know what that meant. He inspected the man, and he was wearing leather clothing with designs all over his arms and upper chest that Draco assumed were Muggle tattoos. He appeared to be several years younger than Draco, and his black hair was dirty. If he weren't a Muggle, he'd have fit right in at a Death Eater meeting – especially since he liked the Mark so much. If he could get it off, Draco would've been more than happy to give it to this bloke, free of charge.

"He's complimenting your tattoo, Malfoy," Hermione said. "Isn't that nice of him?"

"Thanks," he said awkwardly, and the man nodded and walked past them to look at the ice cream. Hermione seemed to think the exchange was funny, and she gave him a little squeeze as she tried to hold in her laughter.

"It's normal to talk to strangers here," she said. It was quite absurd, when he thought about the situation: he was interacting with Muggles, someone was complimenting his Dark Mark, and Hermione Granger was hugging him. He decided he actually liked the world better now that it had turned upside-down, so he smiled back at her. The teenage Muggle behind the counter asked if they were ready, and they were.

"I'll have two scoops of the cookie dough in a cup, please," Hermione said. The Muggle pressed some random buttons on his money machine thing, which caused random numbers to appear on a screen, and then he looked at Draco.

"Two scoops of the chocolate fudge," he instructed. "Please," he added as an afterthought, because it seemed like he should, even though it sounded weird.

"That'll be £3.89," the cashier said, and Draco had no idea what that meant. He'd forgotten about the currency issue until right now, and Hermione had already stepped in front of him to hand the boy some slips of paper. He gave her back some coins and directed them to the end of the counter, where a teenage Muggle girl was scooping the ice cream.

"I'll pay you back in real money if you tell me how much that was," he said.

"Then, I won't tell you," she replied. "You paid for dinner."

Draco thought about it and decided that 'three pounds' couldn't possibly be a lot of money – unless it referred to three whole pounds of galleons, but that was unlikely – so he dropped the issue. The Muggle girl handed them their ice creams, and Draco inspected his with a measure of suspicion. He wondered how the machines worked that made it and if they were clean, but he reckoned hygiene couldn't be an issue if Hermione was willing to eat it. On the counter was a tin of tiny pink spoons in clear baggies, and they both took one. Draco watched Hermione to see how to get the spoon out, and apparently you were just supposed to tear open the wrapper and throw it away, which was really weird and wasteful. It was also the most impractical spoon he had ever tried to eat with, but he guessed that Muggles might not have the technology for making proper silverware.

"There's a nice park near here," Hermione said as she stirred her ice cream. "Want to go there and eat?"

He agreed, and the rejoined the crowd in the street. He took a bite of his ice cream, and it was pretty good. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had his own ice cream, as opposed to the kind stolen from children. Not that he was making that a habit, but it happened to everyone occasionally, right?

He could already see the park down the block, and luckily they didn't have to cross the street again to get to it. It was full of children and dogs and Muggles having fun, playing catch with all sorts of different objects. A few of them were kicking a checkered ball between them with their feet, and he wondered how they'd thought of doing that. Hermione chose a bench near the entry to the park, looking out across the field. She immediately set to work using her spoon to pick out all the little beige bits in her ice cream that he assumed were cookie dough, pushing them to one side of the paper cup. Then, she started eating the rest of the cookie dough-free ice cream.

"Why did you get that kind if you're going to pick out all the cookie dough parts?" he asked.

"I'm saving them for last, because they're the best part. Do you want to try it?" she asked, holding out the cup. He nodded and took one of the bits she'd set aside, and it was very sweet and mushy. He thought it was better than actual cookies.

"I don't see why they even bake cookies if this is what it tastes like beforehand."

"It isn't safe to eat plain cookie dough," she explained. "It has raw eggs in it. You'd get sick if you did that."

He choked a little bit. "This isn't safe to eat?"

She laughed at his confusion, as usual. It seemed he was becoming a fairly consistent source of unintentional comedy for her. "No, I think the stuff they put in ice cream is a different kind. And even if it isn't, it's such a small amount that it couldn't hurt you. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said rigidly, but then he remembered the Muggles in the park and realised he was taking himself really seriously again. He thought about what Muggle tattoo guy would do on a date at the park, and he balanced his ice cream cup on his thigh and put his arm around Hermione. She smiled and put her head on his shoulder. "What are they playing?" he asked, pointing to the boys kicking the ball.

"They aren't really playing it right now, but that's football. It's a very popular sport here, and usually they have teams of eleven people who try to kick a ball into one of two large goals."

He watched the boys, moving around like they all knew where the ball was going to go next. They did know, he realised. It wasn't magic, and it could only go where they kicked it. "How'd they come up with that?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I always thought sports were a bit of a strange thing in general. Football isn't bad to play, though, as long as nobody's getting too competitive about it. I'm not very good, but at least you stay on the ground."

"You don't like flying?" he asked quietly, in case any curious Muggles were listening in.

"Not really. I'm not big on heights, I guess. That's the other reason I'd never jump out of an aeroplane." She tapped her ice cream spoon against her lips a few times after each bite.

"I think not jumping out of aeroplanes just sounds like a logically sound life decision," he said.

"I agree. But you like flying a lot, don't you?" she said softly, lifting her chin to speak near his ear.

"That's not scary, it's fun. It's nice to be free of gravity for a little while." He started thinking about freedom after he'd said that, and she was still tilting her face toward him and very close. She looked pretty in the sunlight. In the real world, there were social forces almost as strong as gravity to keep him from doing something that he wanted to do right now. Conveniently enough, that wasn't where they were, so he kissed her, moving his hand up over her shoulder to the back of her head. She kissed him back for a second, but then she pulled back to look around with a nervous little laugh.

"No one's looking," he said. Her gaze darted to their surroundings briefly once more, and then she smiled and kissed him again, placing her hand on his cheek. They made out for so long that their ice cream got all melty, but there would always be more ice cream. Hermione turned her head down to put her forehead against his chest.

"You know, anybody else would've let me feel sorry for myself," she said after a moment. "If this were Ginny, we'd still be sitting in my flat drinking tea and analyzing the situation, and we wouldn't have gotten anywhere."

"Surprisingly enough, feeling sorry for yourself doesn't actually help that much. I would know," he said, and she laughed, which was okay because that one was meant to be a joke.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do? Just to confirm," she said, and he was in such a good mood that he didn't feel the need to sigh dramatically.

"You can't do this right now, but you can do other things," he suggested. "I know you've got a million important causes stored up in your brain, because you care about all sorts of stuff. Do something about one of those." He took another bite of his watery ice cream, and it still tasted good.

"Don't you care about things, too?" she asked. He knew it was a loaded question.

"I care about things. Just not as many of them as you do, because nobody does."

"That's not true, but thanks for saying it anyway…" She tilted her head, puzzled. "I think. Anyway, I guess I could start working on this other book idea I had."

"What's it about?"

"Well, do you know what chemicals are?"

"No."

She looked around and then moved her head back up to whisper in his ear. "Chemicals are different substances that Muggles study and mix together and use for different things, and the study of them is called chemistry. It's a lot like potions. I got interested in chemistry a few years ago, and I think people in our world would be impressed if they knew some of the things Muggles can do with chemicals – I want to write a book that shows how they can mimic the effects of so many of our potions with science. Of course, they can't make love potions or luck potions or things like that, but those are so dangerous that maybe that's for the best."

"Really? What kind of things can they make, then?" he whispered back.

"Poisons, all sorts of medicine for coughs and colds and almost any illness, drinks that keep you awake or put you to sleep, and even drugs that temporarily alter your thinking in strange ways. There are chemicals that would burn through your skin or kill you if you only inhale the vapours from them."

He pictured Muggle Snape, the Chemicals Master, giving that speech to a class of Muggles, and it would probably be just as scary as first-year Potions. "I didn't know that."

"Yeah, I think a lot of people don't. It might help convince them that Muggles are just as capable as we are – probably more so, because the science they use to mimic the effects of magic is so complicated and difficult. I'd be surprised if most magical people could master stoichiometry, much less synthesize acetylsalicylic acid. And that's just aspirin, a basic pain medication, and Muggles go so far beyond that with the things they make."

Draco tried to keep his eyes from glazing over when she started stringing together such long and confusing words, especially since she was so close. Only Hermione Granger would kiss you and then whisper huskily in your ear about synthesizing acetyl-something acid. Sexy. He reckoned that under different circumstances, though, he might be interested in chemistry. He'd always been good with potions, and he never knew Muggles could make their own versions of so many of them. "That's interesting," he managed.

"I don't know if you're just saying that, but I have some basic chemistry books I could lend you if you want."

"I could use something new to read," he said. She nodded and pulled back to rest on his shoulder again, now that they were through discussing secret magical business. They finished their half-melted ice cream and watched the Muggles play in the park, and he felt calmer than he had in a long time. He wasn't sure how late it was, but eventually she sat up and stretched.

"We should probably be getting back," she said, and they stood and threw their empty paper cups in a nearby rubbish bin. She took his hand again, and they walked back through the city to the entrance to Diagon Alley. It wasn't until they went back through the Floo to her flat that he remembered about his left arm, but maybe it was time to start getting used to that thing if he was going to be spending so much time out in public. He wasn't about to start wearing short sleeves to work, no matter how hot it got outside, but it was a part of his body for life.

"I'll go get those books for you," Hermione said, and then she walked out of the living room. He went to pick up his robes, but her cat was sitting on them. It let Draco pick it up carefully and purred against his chest as he brushed the fur off his robes, and Hermione walked back in with the books and smiled widely at him. "So, you really like Crookshanks, then?" she asked.

"It was sitting on my robes," he explained, placing the cat back down on the floor, where it made a noise of protest at the loss of contact. He took the robes and shook them out, but they were still encased in orange fur, and he knew he'd have to wear a different set later.

"Sorry about that. I guess he likes you, too, if he wants to sit on your clothes." She crossed the room and handed him the books. "I think I'll do some more of my research for this today. It's pretty exciting once you get into it."

"I'll give it a try," he said. The texts looked pretty intimidating, but they had interesting pictures on the covers with strange, steaming concoctions in clear glass tubes that did resemble potions. He tucked the books and his robes under one arm, and she put her hands on his chest and looked up at him.

"Thank you for going with me this morning, even though it didn't go so well. We've still got the concert to look forward to, right?"

"Right," he said, placing his free hand on the small of her back.

He was starting to get a bit wrapped up in this thing with her, in a way that was pretty spooky, especially since it was still so early and uncertain. He'd never find out if he was right about this, but he wondered if this was how Muggles felt when they looked out of aeroplanes right before they jumped, except at least they had strips of fabric to keep them from hitting the ground too hard. She stood on her toes to kiss him again, which was a bit awkward with the books and also because he was really into it. She backed away too soon, which is to say she backed away, and then she avoided his eyes and blushed.

"Well, er, so. I haven't got plans yet for this weekend," she said.

"I'll owl you," he said. "See you soon."

"See you," she said, waving at him again. Normally someone would wave at a group of people, or to greet someone from a distance, but she liked to wave for both hello and goodbye at close range even if there was just one person, and then usually she'd ruffle her hair or smooth her clothing with the same hand directly after. He reckoned it was a symptom of being one of those fidgety people who could never quite figure out what her hands were supposed to be doing. He waved back, imitating her motion, and she smiled. Then, he turned around and took the Floo back to the claustrophobic dungeon that some people referred to as 'Malfoy Manor.'

His mother wasn't there to ask where he'd been, despite the fact that he hadn't bothered leaving a note, but he hadn't spoken to her since their little tiff the previous day. He knew another discussion would have to happen soon. If he knew his mother at all, he could be certain she was stewing about it at that very moment. He handed his fur-covered robes to a nearby house elf to wash, and then he sat in his living room to see what chemistry was all about, since he still had a couple of hours until work. He chose the book that seemed the most basic, starting with the preface. He was already getting confused, but it was sort of fascinating at the same time, with all the strange symbols. It reminded him of Ancient Runes, and the Muggle who was writing it sounded very smart. According to the text, his Muggle job was called "scientist."

Before he could get to the first chapter, he was interrupted by a Floo call from Will.

"Hey, Drake. What are you reading?" Draco held up his book, and Will made a disgusted face as he read the title. "Chemistry? Studying for your A-levels, then?"

"My what?"

"Never mind, it's a Muggle thing. Why are you reading about that?"

"Granger lent it to me. She's working on a book about how chemistry relates to potions," he explained, and Will's face lit up.

"Is she, now? And what else is she working on?" he asked suggestively, even though it wasn't a very good innuendo.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Well, have you two been spending a lot of time together lately?" Again with the eyebrows, bouncing all over the place. Someday, Draco was certain they'd fall off.

"Some," he said casually.

"I see. And what percentage of that time, would you estimate, have you spent shagging?"

Draco couldn't quite keep the shock off his face: in polite society, you pretty much had to know someone as long as he'd known Pansy to bring up their sex life. Perhaps this was normal for other people, though. "Zero," he said.

"But that's just an estimate, right?"

"No, that is an exact figure."

"Okay, then how much time wanting to?"

And at that, Draco was done playing along. "Is there something you came here to talk to me about?"

Will grinned and nodded slowly. "All right, we'll table this conversation for the next time you're drunk. Anyway, I wanted to update you on our plans for the concert. We can still have it here, right?"

"Yes," he said. "I talked to my mother, and she likes the idea. We've had a bit of… negative publicity lately, though."

"Yeah, tough break on that one. But I think this will help people get over that, as long as we don't have it too soon. I've decided to push the date back a bit, and right now we're looking at June 23rd, which is a Saturday."

"That should work. When did you want to do rehearsals? Did you want to do those here too?"

"That would be helpful if we could, since I know you guys have a lot of space," he said, looking around at the lavish room appreciatively. "If not, I get that - I don't want to impose. I want to have them Saturdays and Sundays starting this week, and this Saturday will be an informational meeting for all the performers, where we'll make final calls on songs for everybody."

"That could be arranged. That reminds me, I heard from Granger that I'm one of them," he said accusingly, and Will had the grace to look embarrassed.

"I didn't think you'd do it if I just asked you, so I had to go through back channels. You don't have to, of course."

"Except I do," he said, sulking.

"It'll be fun, though." Draco gave him a skeptical look. "And short," he added. "You'd be singing one little song – with a voice charm, of course. Just to show the crowd how much you like Muggle music. You don't even have to dance."

"Do I have to come up with a song? I don't know what any of the singers look like."

"No, we'll take care of that for you. I've got a few ideas for you. Bee said Meg can take your shifts on Sunday nights so you can make all the rehearsals."

"All right," he said reluctantly.

"One more thing - I heard you're friends with Blaise Zabini. Are you guys pretty close?" Draco nodded. "Do you think there's any chance he'd want to be in the show? His name would look fantastic, and Don says he likes to buy music at the Basement."

"I'll ask him about it, but no guarantees," he said. He didn't want to get Will's hopes up, but it was a possibility. Blaise loved attention, after all. He liked the music, too, but mostly attention.

"Great, I really appreciate it. Are you excited? I'm getting excited, mate."

"It could be fun," he said. Maybe he could get somebody else to Polyjuice into him and go on stage in his place.

"Right. So we're all going to show up here at five o'clock on Saturday, then. Thanks again - we couldn't be doing this without you. See you at rehearsal."

"See you," Draco said, and Will's head disappeared from the fire.

He only managed to make it through the first chapter of the text before he had to get ready for work, but he thought he was already starting to understand.


	18. This Family

**Chapter 18: This Family**

Before work on Thursday, Draco Floo'd Blaise to invite him to participate in the show, but he stuck his head through the fire to find a very frantic-looking man.

"Malfoy! What are you doing here?" he asked, rushing a hand over his head.

"I've come to offer you an opportunity," he said, ready to deliver his pitch.

"It'll have to wait until later – actually…" He paused and considered Draco for a moment. "It pains me to ask you this – as in, I am really in physical pain right now – but I need a favour," he said, grimacing as he spoke.

"What do you need?" He couldn't remember the last time Blaise had asked him for a favour.

"I'm sort of in a bind," he said. "Daphne's out to lunch with her sister, and I'm here alone with Amarantha, but I've got this important business call from Germany on hold in the other Floo. They want me to meet with them right now, and I'm going to lose this deal if I don't, but I can't get a nanny here on such short notice. I'd leave her with a house elf, but she's learned how to order them around – the last time I tried, she convinced Jinxie to levitate her onto the roof. Too smart for her own good, she is."

Draco wasn't sure he was following. The most likely option was that Blaise wanted to brew a Polyjuice Potion so that Draco could meet with the Germans in his place, because the other possibility was simply preposterous. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Blaise rubbed his neck, looking conflicted. "Will you come through and watch Amarantha for half an hour or so?"

"You're going to leave me alone with your child?"

Blaise made a face like he was beginning to feel ill. "There's no need to phrase it like that. Can you do it or not?"

"I guess so," he said, and Blaise stepped aside to let him through.

"All right, the rules, very quickly: do not harm her in any way, and try not to talk unless absolutely necessary. I have to go take this call, but you'd better be careful. You will be in such unbelievable pain if you have any negative effect on my daughter that words cannot begin to describe the hurt. I mean it!" he said, and Draco knew he meant it. He left the room and returned almost immediately, leading Amarantha by the hand. He raised two fingers to point at his eyes and then at Draco, and then he hurried to his office.

"Draco!" Amarantha said, rushing forward to hug his leg in her excitement. He stood still awkwardly until she pulled back.

"Hi, Amarantha," he said. He tried to mask his unease, but really Draco wasn't good with children. They were a bit too illogical for his taste. "How are you?"

"Want to see my dollies?" she asked, ignoring his question, and he nodded. That sounded safe and easy.

She grabbed his hand and led him through the corridors to her playroom. The dolls were laid out in a line, and she introduced them to Draco by name, with a short bio about each one's likes and dislikes. She made him pretend to shake hands with all of them, and then she started on the stuffed animals. By the time he'd been met every toy in the expansive playroom, Draco was already tired and bored out of his skull, and he hoped Blaise would return soon. Fortunately, she must've been tired, too, because Amarantha took a seat on the rug and patted the ground opposite herself. Draco sat gratefully.

"Will you tell me a story?" she asked, with what must have been the sweetest voice she could muster.

"Your dad doesn't want me to tell you the fun kind of stories anymore," he told her, with a shrug. He couldn't think of any tales that Blaise would approve.

"I won't tell," she said, wide-eyed. He ran a hand through his hair, considering his options. If it was between telling a story and having one-sided conversations with any more toys, he'd definitely prefer the story, and her father was still busy anyway. He glanced over his shoulder just to make sure before leaning in close.

"You promise?" he asked.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," she told him solemnly, drawing an_ X _across her chest with one finger. There was no harm in it, he reckoned, and it would use up some time. He smiled wickedly, trying to get into character.

"Have you heard the story of Silversnatch?" he asked, in a voice like dark and stormy nights, and she shook her head. He rubbed his chin and sighed. "No, we shouldn't speak of such things. It's too horrible."

"Please, please, please!" she wailed.

"You're sure you can handle it?"

She was beside herself, bouncing up and down on her heels while clenching and relaxing her little fists. "Yes!" she said. "Tell me!"

"If you say so." He adjusted his collar and smoothed his hair, stalling until he knew she couldn't wait another second without bursting into tears. "A long time ago in a land not-so-far away," he began, "there was a little boy about your age. He was a reckless little boy, not like you. His mother told him not to go into the woods behind their cottage, and he would always ask her why, but she would never tell him. He was also a disobedient little boy, and he didn't trust his mother's good judgment, and one day after lunch he ventured out into the woods alone. He wandered through the brush, and he could have sworn he heard an inhuman rustling sound, but he couldn't see anything. He went back home and told his mother that she was wrong, that the woods weren't dangerous at all. When she found out that he'd gone against her wishes, she forbade him from leaving the house after dark. But he was a cunning and wicked little boy, and he knew that what she really meant was that the woods were only dangerous at night.

"So, the next night he snuck out of his bedroom window, and he went back out and crawled much too far into the dark forest. This time, the rustling was all around him, and he tried to go back. He realised that his mother had been right all along, but it was too late – he turned around, and there it was. Silversnatch was taller than three men, but it was so thin that the little boy could see all of its bones. Its arms were two metres long each, and the little boy knew that it could reach out and grab him right from where it stood. Worse still, on the end of each arm was a claw bigger than the boy's head, covered in a hundred tiny needles." Draco held out his arms to demonstrate the treacherous claws of the monster, and Amarantha's eyes were as wide as saucers, with both hands over her mouth. "He stared into its wild eyes, like two jars of bluebell flames from across a foggy lake. It stood perfectly still, and the boy didn't move a muscle, either. Then, suddenly –"

A large hand came down hard on Draco's shoulder and squeezed painfully, and he and Amarantha both jumped half-way out of their skin.

"_Malfoy! What are telling my daughter?_" Draco dropped his pretend claws and stood, brushing off his trousers. Act casual, he reminded himself. Blaise had no proof that he'd been doing anything wrong.

"She asked me to tell her a story, and so I was," he said, all innocent-like, and Blaise narrowed his eyes.

"I see." He turned to his daughter. "What was the story about, Amarantha?"

"Unicorns," she said immediately, and Draco was impressed with her quick thinking.

"Oh, really?" said Blaise. "Because I could've sworn…" He paused, rounding on Draco. "That unicorns don't _go like this!_" he roared, raising his hands to make his own claws. "Come with me, Malfoy. We need to talk."

"Daddy," Amarantha whined, "I didn't get to hear the end of the story."

Blaise glowered at Draco. "Then finish it," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Draco returned the glare, maintaining eye contact with Blaise as he spoke. "And then a rainbow appeared in the sky, and all the unicorns lived happily ever after," he said.

The two men continued their staring contest until Amarantha broke their concentration. "Don't yell at Draco, daddy!" she said. "Nobody else tells stories as good."

"We tell you stories," Blaise said, but she wasn't having any of it.

"Those are boring. Draco tells exciting ones!"

"All right," he said. Draco reckoned he was probably in physical pain again, having to compromise with his daughter about this. "Draco will still tell you stories if you go to your room for a minute, so we can talk about it." When she did as instructed, Draco was pretty sure he was about to be in major trouble, but Blaise just gave him a disappointed look.

"Malfoy, can't you come up with anything exciting that isn't also terrifying?"

"I don't think my stories are scary," he said, feeling defiant now that he was pretty sure he wasn't about to be hexed. "They're cautionary tales, for teaching children to obey their parents and keep themselves safe, and so really you should be thanking me. These are the same stories I was told as a child."

"Right," said Blaise, unimpressed. "And who told them to you?"

"My family."

"Specifically?"

"Aunt Bella," he admitted, and Blaise sighed heavily. Draco's father had pulled a few strings with the Ministry long ago, and there had been a brief and terrible time in Draco's childhood when he'd been dragged along with his parents semi-regularly to visit Bella and Rodolphus as a family. Their time spent together in the Azkaban visitation rooms was memorable, to say the least. "But I tell them differently than she did. I always change the endings so the kids don't die."

He also made sure to keep his hand motions to himself: he still had a scar on his shoulder from his aunt's nails the first time she'd told him the story of Silversnatch. Oh, and then of course there were the emotional scars, some of which had come to light that time he'd seen the Dark Lord/Professor Quirrell in the Forbidden Forest his first year. He'd been certain that it was none other than the Hooded Woodsman, whose balanced diet consisted of two major food groups, according to his aunt: unicorns and children who made excuses. He hadn't learned until his first Care of Magical Creatures class that nearly all of the monsters he'd heard about as a child were really just made-up ones that Bellatrix believed _should_ exist.

"If Daphne and I have another kid, do you think there's a way that we could name you the anti-godfather? As in, you would be literally the last person to ever get custody of the child, like if everyone else in the whole world were dead?"

"First, probably – you could look into it, and I'm not doing your research for you. Second, I don't understand why you'd want to. I think Amarantha has made it pretty clear that I'm just about her favourite person ever," he said. His thoughts were elsewhere, though.

The stories Bellatrix had told him were indeed effective ways to impress certain values upon a child, but he'd always thought those values were obedience, respect, and proper manners. Watching Amarantha's face as he described the beast, he'd realised that the actual effect of the stories was to instill fear and unquestioning faith in one's superiors. He thought about the content from an adult perspective: in the story, the little boy's mother wouldn't even tell him what was in the forest. He was just supposed to take her word for it that he shouldn't go there. If she'd respected her son enough to tell him the whole truth, he would've decided for himself that she was right.

But maybe she didn't even know, because she herself had never bothered to ask why, and neither had her mother or her mother's mother, and everybody was just staying cooped up in their little cottage for centuries because they were too afraid to venture into unknown territory. What if the story had gone a different way, and there was no monster at all? What if the boy just got muddy and scraped up his knees and crawled all the way through the forest to finally find out what was on the other side?

He considered the various adults present in his upbringing, including Bellatrix, and he noted that he'd been raised almost exclusively by Death Eaters. If it hadn't been for his first defeat, maybe the Dark Lord himself would have been Draco's godfather, and he could only imagine the kind of stories that guy would tell a child. On the bright side, nobody would ever be able to call Draco the worst godfather of all time. He realised dimly that Blaise was still talking, but it wasn't registering in his brain, so he interrupted with the conclusion of his own thoughts.

"I had a fucked up childhood," he said, and Blaise closed his mouth and stayed quiet for a moment.

"Is this the first time you're acknowledging that?" he asked.

It was, he supposed, or at least out loud. He'd had his suspicions, but everything had seemed so normal at the time – as a child, he'd assumed everybody had an aunt like Bella and a grandfather like Abraxus. He'd thought it was just another unpleasant part of life that people had to deal with. "I guess," he said.

Blaise nodded slowly, and Draco thought he could detect a flicker of sympathy. Maybe it was pity, but sympathy sounded better in his head. "Now that you know it, do you want my kid to turn out as fucked up as you?"

"I'm not fucked up," he said. Bella was fucked up, and his father was, too. Maybe even his mother was, a little bit, but not him. He was figuring things out in ways they never had. He wasn't like them.

"Well, you're better than you used to be." A memory came to Draco then: there was a conversation they'd had in his sixth year, where he'd bragged about his assignment to kill Dumbledore like it was the greatest opportunity a sixteen-year-old kid had ever gotten, and yes. He couldn't deny that Blaise had seen him fucked up. "But it was hard to change, though, wasn't it?"

He nodded. It wasn't the hardest thing he'd ever done, though, in retrospect: doing things wrong felt easy as you did them and hard later, and doing them right worked the opposite way.

"Then don't lead my daughter down that path," Blaise continued. "For example: you know how I feel about Muggles, right?"

This conversation had taken him by surprise, and he wasn't sure where it was going, exactly; they hardly ever talked about things that actually mattered. "What do you mean? Their music?"

"No, in general. I don't like them. I don't trust them, but I know I'm already dating myself when I say that. Imagine when Amarantha's older – if she goes to Hogwarts talking like we did when we were eleven, calling people Mudbloods and blood-traitors, even the other kids'll call her out on it. She won't have any friends. I'm afraid it's about two decades too late to change my own mind, but there's no use teaching it to her. That's the sacrifice we have to make, people like us. Call it community service."

He let it sink in, and Draco saw how important this was to him. He weighed his words before he spoke. "What about Granger, then?"

Blaise's face hardened, and he shook his head. "Now is not the time, Malfoy."

"Fine," he said. He wasn't giving up, though, especially after this. "Later, then."

"Later," he agreed, and Draco could feel that the moment was already over. They were back to normal again, except they knew each other better, after all these years. "For now, you can come up with some child-friendly stories. With regards to this incident, if she gets up in the middle of the night scared out of her wits, then I'm going to bring her to your house, and you'll sit up with her and explain that whatever you just told her about isn't real."

"But unicorns are real," he pointed out, just to be contrary. Maybe to lighten the mood, too.

Blaise cracked a dark smile, going along with the old game. "All right, I don't think you really understand," he said. "I'm going to tell you a little cautionary tale of my own: the monsters your aunt told you about are imaginary, but I am not. Are we clear?" Draco nodded. "All right, then. My call's over, so what were you trying to Floo me about earlier?"

"Maybe this isn't the right time for that, either," he said.

Blaise waved him off. "Just go ahead and tell me. It can't be any worse."

He caught Blaise's meaning: their conversation earlier was never to be mentioned again, and he might as well just proceed as though it hadn't happened at all. "It's about Muggle music," he said.

"Oh, have you given it a chance yet?"

"Some of it's okay. I'm asking because I'm sort of helping put together this concert at the manor next month. The Basement might go under if they don't raise some money."

Blaise was surprised, as he might've predicted. Everyone would be, when the news came out. "You're organizing a charity concert to save the Muggle music?"

"It sounds really weird when you put it like that." Even to Draco, it did.

"That's because it is weird. Why are you doing it?"

"It wasn't my idea," he said, like that made it any more normal. "A friend from work came up with it, and he needed a venue."

"Right, I always forget you've got these other friends now. Well, good for you?" he guessed, and they shared a confused look.

"Yeah. Anyway, the concert's going to be a bunch of us performing the Muggle songs. My friend wants to know if you'd like to be in it – you know, on stage in front of screaming crowds, women throwing their knickers at you, making the news the next day, and then the after-parties… typical rockstar stuff." He shrugged his shoulders like it was no big deal.

Blaise made a big show of needing to think about it, probably to try and cover up the way his eyes lit up initially. "Hm," he said. "Would it be a major time commitment?"

"Rehearsals are just going to be on weekends, and then the show is on June 23rd."

Blaise had a family, plenty of cash, and a generally pleasant and comfortable life, but the one thing he didn't have was a legion of screaming fans. "I think I could swing that," he said at last. "Tell your friend I'll do it."

"Can you be at the manor on Saturday at five o'clock?"

"All right," he said, and he looked rather pleased with this turn of events. "And if it ever comes up, which I don't think it will, don't tell Daphne I let you babysit."

"I won't." For his own sake, mostly. "I'll see you on Saturday."

"See you, Malfoy." He inclined his chin, then turned and left the room, probably to locate his child.

Draco walked back to the living room and took the Floo home. He had to hurry, but he managed to get to the Raven on time, and luckily no more reporters were waiting for him outside. It wasn't a bad time at work, but his evening got a whole lot worse as soon as he got home. A letter from Hermione was waiting for him in his entryway:

_Malfoy,_

_I know it's short notice, but I didn't know for sure until this morning. Will asked me to try and get Harry to perform in the show for some extra publicity, and he's agreed to do it. George Weasley is going to be in the show, too, because he's been friends with Will since school. I just thought I should let you know in advance. I've given Harry and George a list of things they aren't allowed to talk to you about, and I started making one for you, but it got really long, so maybe you guys shouldn't talk to each other at all. Please don't fight. I'll see you on Saturday._

_Granger_

_P.S.: If George ever tries to give you any kind of food item, __do not eat it__._

All right, let him know in advance so he could do what? Arrange some kind of elaborate trap to spring when Potter walked in the door? Actually, that wasn't a bad idea, and Blaise would probably help him put it together, but it wouldn't be too great for his image. Mentally prepare, then? Draco couldn't think of a way to do that except to visualize Harry Potter standing in his house, and all that did was irritate him. From what he'd learned about being a good person, though, he knew that warning him had been 'the right thing to do' in Hermione's situation. And he was glad she'd done that, so he could at least stifle his tantrum when Potter showed up.

Maybe it was just by comparison, but George Weasley didn't seem like that big a deal. Ron Weasley would've been a serious problem, but George was basically just poor and ugly, and even Draco had to admit he could be pretty funny sometimes. The only reason he had for hating George was the whole Malfoy/Weasley thing, and he had to honour tradition, but he wasn't about to throw a hissy fit in front of Hermione over that. It wouldn't be worth it. On the other hand, apparently Hermione was privy to plans George had for poisoning him, which was definitely going beyond the established family feud guidelines: a respectable long-term feud involved petty insults, a handful of hexes, and plenty of backbiting, but they weren't supposed to actually kill each other. If one person started down that road, pretty soon everyone from both families would be dead or in prison, and then it wouldn't be fun anymore. On the other, _other_ hand, his father had handed a piece of the Dark Lord's soul to George's eleven-year-old sister, and Death Eaters did sort of burn down their house. But that was Bellatrix, and she wasn't technically a Malfoy, so her actions only counted as part of her own personal feud with everybody who wasn't evil and completely insane.

Thinking about Ron Weasley kept making Draco smile lately, because he could only imagine how much that bloke would hate him when he found out Draco was going out with Hermione. In the heavyweight championships of hatred, it would have to be up there with the Dark Lord vs. Harry Potter. Then again, it was possible that Potter and the Weasleys already knew this information, and that was why George was plotting his demise. He'd have to worm it out of Hermione whether or not she'd told any of them, or he wouldn't be able to truly feel safe eating anything. Not that attempts on his life would be justified, of course: he hadn't taken anything from the Potters or the Weasleys. Hermione was a human being who could make her own decisions, and good for her if she'd rather snog Draco than Weasley. That was common sense. He didn't know the whole situation, but it seemed to Draco that Hermione's friends were being a bunch of Pansies about the whole thing: they weren't necessarily acting like the good friends that they should've been, but they still wanted to come in and make decisions for her about her life. In fact, if Potter and the Weasleys had been there for Hermione before now, she might never have talked to Draco about anything, and then they wouldn't be dating. So it was all their own fault, really, and he wouldn't hesitate to point that out to them if the subject ever came up.

He put the letter aside, and it wasn't until he'd tucked himself into bed that he remembered what was happening tomorrow. He'd be seeing his father for possibly the last time ever, and he lay awake for hours trying to think of something to say, but he couldn't come up with anything.

**

* * *

**

Everything important kept happening to Draco at seven o'clock in the morning, and he wouldn't actually mind if they could push it back to nine or so. Or, in the case of seeing Lucius, they could just go ahead and make an appointment for never. He woke at six to get ready, and he ended up sitting in the bath for half an hour, lost in memories of his father. In his head he'd constructed a history of their relationship, complete to the best of his knowledge.

When Draco was born, the First War was just gathering steam, and it had looked like the Malfoys were on the right side that time. He'd wondered in the past if the first year of his life had been like the Second War between his parents, but he knew his family had enjoyed much higher status in those days. His father probably hadn't been so obsessed with proving his worth, and his mother would hardly have been involved at all with such a young child to care for. Then, when he was less than a year old, everything changed. Harry Potter lived, and the Dark Lord… kind of lived. His father told the Ministry that he'd been under the Imperious Curse and walked free. Now, Malfoys were known for their skillful deception, but that was such a giant, outrageous, ridiculous lie that Draco was shocked that anyone had ever believed it for one second. On the other hand, his father had always been well-connected, and there were quite a few people in the world who thought money was more important than the truth.

Next was the part of Draco's childhood that he remembered. Lucius was always a stern father, and he'd perfected the whole 'tough love' thing admirably. He was pleased with Draco when he did things well, but not too pleased, because it wasn't healthy to spoil a child with too much affection. Spoiling a child with too many material goods was not a concern. When Draco made mistakes, he was punished. This meant having things taken away, but it was usually only one thing at a time, and little Draco had so many toys that this was hardly an issue. The important part of the punishment was emotional abandonment – namely, the silent treatment. His father dealt with his missteps first with a cold lecture: he told his son that he was disappointed, and he explained why, and then it could be days before he even spared a glance in Draco's direction, no matter how hard his young son tried to get his attention. His mother had never acknowledged that this was happening: she talked to both of them normally and passed news along to Draco as necessary.

When Draco went to Hogwarts, he remembered being glad to be away from home but missing his mother, and he'd thought about his father rarely. Lucius wasn't the one writing letters and sending care packages, so there was nothing to remind Draco of his existence except the same sentence at the end of all his mother's letters: _Your father sends his best._ There were several different ways to send a person your best, such as Floo calls, personal letters, gifts, and even visits, and Lucius wasn't doing any of that. Over the years, Draco became more and more skeptical as to whether his father ever thought about him at all.

Their relationship wasn't really strained or conflicted or resentful; it was just very distant. He thought about the times when he and his father had run into fellow students and their families out in public, which was when Draco first discovered his usefulness as a bargaining chip. There was never a time at dinner or something when his father would tell him he was a good son, but when other parents were around, Lucius never failed to make it clear that Draco was better than their children in every way. As a young boy, it had pleased Draco to hear those things, but over time he came to understand that they were not for his benefit at all. They were not words to make Draco feel good, only words to make other people feel bad.

Then came the Second War. Lucius became even more estranged from his family and also his sanity, and Draco had been deeply concerned that his father was going off the rails. His behavior became unpredictable and his moods erratic, and Draco began to treat him with extreme caution. They hadn't spoken for a full two months toward the end of his fifth year, and then his father came to announce his assignment from the Dark Lord. Lucius had been brimming with excitement at the prospect, believing that if Draco could complete his task, their family would be returned to its former standing. Draco had been terrified out of his mind: not only did he know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he couldn't do it, but he also knew that his father was the only person who thought he could. Draco had worked it out quickly on his own that the Dark Lord had never expected a sixteen-year-old to successfully assassinate one of the most powerful wizards ever to exist.

He went to Hogwarts that year without a lifeline in sight, and he couldn't think about anything except the inevitable. Every time he ate a meal, he'd scolded himself for not enjoying it, because he would only get so many more of those before Dumbledore was forced to end his pitiful life. He threw together a few half-hearted plots, and in hindsight they were so obvious that Draco was pretty sure he'd been trying to get caught. The moment finally came, and Draco didn't die, and then his aunt led him jubilantly by the hand away from Dumbledore's lifeless body like a child at a fair.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember a whole lot of details from his seventh year and the final battle. He knew who died, and he knew the chain of events, but it might as well have happened to somebody else. His first clear memory was when his parents found him and Goyle standing in the hallway, wreckage and bodies all around them, and Crabbe was already gone. His father had embraced him for the first time since Draco could walk unassisted. His mother said "I love you," and his father said "Draco," and he knew they meant the same thing, but it was still different. The next time he'd seen Goyle after that was at Crabbe's funeral, and suddenly they had nothing to say to each other anymore. They weren't on unpleasant terms, but their friendship was gone.

His mother had lied to the Dark Lord's face because she didn't give a shit about anything in the world except her son, and he'd never been less than completely certain that she cared for him, even though she'd made her share of mistakes. All his father had done was avoid killing any more people for ten minutes to make sure Draco was alive, and it wasn't really enough.

His fingers were getting all shriveled and funny-looking, and it was time to get out of the tub and finish getting ready. He dried himself and looked in the mirror. He hadn't really thought about it much before, but now he could see why everyone kept saying grey clouds followed him around. His face was a bit stormy, like he was just waiting for the right moment to release a bunch of inconvenient emotional backlash on the countryside.

He wasn't angry with his father anymore, which worried him. It seemed like he should be feeling a whole lot of something right about now, but he really just wanted this to be over so he could get back to his life. In fact, he wished there was a way he could stay home and have his mother end the visit with "Draco sends his best," but he wasn't about to send her into Azkaban alone.

He dressed and went to join her in the dining hall, where she was holding a clean fork and staring at an untouched plate of food.

"You should eat something, Draco," she said hypocritically.

"I'm not hungry," he said. She set down her fork and nodded.

"They've given us a Portkey that goes directly into the meeting room, and it's set to activate in ten minutes." She gestured to a copper goblet sitting in the middle of the table.

"How long are we going to spend with him?" He noticed that Narcissa had made an effort to look her best for the first time in days; her makeup was flawless, with not a hair out of place. She'd have looked quite pretty if her expression was less miserable.

"We have one hour," she said. "It should give us ample time to make financial arrangements and discuss the future."

Financial arrangements would be good, but Draco didn't really see the point in discussing the future with Lucius: he wasn't going to be there for it. He stood up straight next to the table for nine minutes, and then his mother stood as well, and they both touched the goblet. Fifty-five seconds later, they were transported to a private meeting chamber within Azkaban prison.

Draco was oddly relieved that his father wasn't there yet. There was a table set up with two chairs on one side and one on the other, and he and his mother sat next to each other. A guard entered the room and looked at them contemptuously, but this was already better than the last time he'd visited Azkaban. No more Dementors.

"Bring him in," the guard called, and another one followed with his father in tow. The chains rattled on the floor as Lucius crossed the room, and his escort shoved him into the remaining chair. His long hair had been chopped off artlessly, and he looked small and weak without it, especially in grey woolen prison robes. He didn't acknowledge his family until both guards had left and shut the door behind them. Nobody knew what to say for a while, but finally his father broke the silence.

"You're looking well, Narcissa," he said. Draco knew his mother didn't miss the implication that she should have been looking worse under the circumstances, but she didn't show an emotional reaction. He was glad she'd done her hair, personally – let his father see that he'd reached the limit of her grief. Give him a glimpse of what life will look like from now on, without him.

"Thank you," she said. Her face was serene now, and she was as pretty as Draco had ever seen her.

"I never thought I'd be here again," Lucius said. Draco selected a spot on the wall behind his father and stared at it until his eyes unfocused.

"We have some business to attend to," his mother said primly. She folded her hands in her lap, but he knew her wand was hidden beneath them.

"You will uphold the provisions laid out in my will. I have no further stipulations to add."

Draco supposed that was good news: Lucius's will would leave all control of their estate to him, provided that he took excellent care of his mother. Unfortunately, they still had approximately fifty-four minutes left of family time.

"Look at me, Draco," his father said, and he took his sweet time making eye contact. Lucius revealed nothing on his face, and he made sure to do the same. "I hope that I have misjudged you, but I am not convinced that you are capable of handling your responsibilities as heir to our legacy. It is greatly disappointing that this should happen now, before I could properly set our affairs in order."

If it helped him pass the time in his cell, Lucius could be disappointed all he wanted.

"What are your plans for the future of this family?" his father continued, narrowing his eyes.

Draco delayed as long as possible before answering because he didn't know what to say. His actual plans were as follows, in no particular order: listen to Muggle music, serve people coffee, shag Hermione Granger, and make up some stories without any monsters. He couldn't tell his father any of that. "I plan to sell the house in Monaco and ensure the continued growth of our investments," he said, improvising.

"This is it," his father said, pausing after each sentence to let it sink in. "The end of our line sits before me. The Malfoy name no longer stands for anything at all."

Draco considered bringing up the remote possibility of 'vile half-blooded babies' but decided against it, so he didn't respond. Maybe ten years down the line, he'd send his father a letter that ended with: "and the vile half-blooded babies send their best."

"Draco is not the end of our line," his mother defended.

"You're right," Lucius said. "I am. Whether he produces an heir or not, the Malfoy name as it has reigned for centuries is dead. What do you have to say for yourself?" he asked, looking at Draco.

"I have nothing to say," he said, as opposed to what he was thinking, which was more along the lines of _finally_.

"And you, my wife? Do you have anything more to say to me?" Now, of all times, his father still thought looking scary was going to help him out. It felt just like black linen replaced by grey wool.

"I do not," Narcissa said.

"Then I do not see the point of remaining at this table any longer." This right here, thought Draco, was the last time he'd ever agree with his father. "If I had known it would end this way, I would never have had a son," he concluded.

On the continuum of last words to one's only child, that was definitely toward the 'harsh' side. To tell the truth, Draco wasn't sure why his father was so terribly disappointed in him; he had no way of knowing that Draco was the one who'd gotten him thrown in prison. On the other hand, there was no other living person for Lucius to be angry with except himself, and it wasn't like his father to admit that something was his own fault. It made sense that he'd want to take it out on Draco. Maybe after a few years of solitary confinement, he'd have that glorious little epiphany that he was the one who'd fucked up the Malfoy name, and he'd give himself a heart attack in his cell. Lucius stood and walked to the door with his head held high, dragging his chains, and knocked once. The door opened, and he was escorted away, and the same guard from before returned and placed another copper goblet on the table in front of Draco.

He glanced at his mother, and together they touched the new Portkey, and it took them back home.

**

* * *

**

A/N: Bonus deleted scene: I wrote Hermione's letter to George (but not to Harry) because I was going to have George crumple it up and throw it at Draco in the next chapter, except that didn't end up happening. But since I wrote it anyway and it's short, here it is:

_George,_

_As per our Floo discussion, please do not bring up the following subjects with Malfoy in any context:  
Me  
His father  
The rest of his family  
The War  
Money  
Immature school rivalry leftovers  
Politics  
The Chudley Cannons_

_I would recommend that you carefully consider everything you say in the event that you must speak to one another, and remember that I will be __very disappointed in all of you__ if there is any fighting. Trust me, you have not seen the likes of such disappointment since you ruined my 26th birthday party. Just so you know, your cheque only covered the water damage, and bits of that woman's shoe are still melted into my carpet. Anyway, please give him another chance, especially after all the help he's given me lately. He seems to have his priorities straight now, and I can tell he regrets his behavior as a teenager. If you want to exceed my expectations and make me very happy by actually having a civil conversation with him, I've also come up with an acceptable topic:_

_The weather_

_If you come up with your own alternatives, try to clear them with me first._

_Love,  
Hermione_


	19. No Offense

**Chapter 19: No Offense**

Draco was made out of atoms. There were only a little more than a hundred different kinds of atoms, and it didn't even take all of them to make a Draco. A handful of them was enough, grouped together in different ways and repeated over and over again, and it wasn't just him. His chemistry book was made of the same atoms, and so were his wand, his father, Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, blades of grass, and teapots. Conveniently enough, nobody could see the atoms, because they were too small. The Muggles claimed to know they were there anyway and to be able to look at them and move them around using special tools, and for some reason nobody was calling them out on their ridiculous charade.

Draco had brought his chemistry book to read at work on Friday, mostly to distract himself from his unsettling morning, but he'd also taken a really long nap, so it sort of felt like it was already the next day anyway. He was becoming a bit skeptical as he read more of it. It didn't make sense that everything in the whole world and the rest of the universe could all be put together from the same pieces when everything was so different. He could buy into some of the more plausible elements of chemistry, like the way Muggles mixed different substances together and studied the results, because he could go out and prove that to himself if he really wanted to. The book didn't provide instructions for how he might check and see if his hand was really a big clump of atoms: he was just supposed to trust them on that one.

That wasn't even all of it - the Muggles claimed that they'd looked inside the alleged "atoms" that they already couldn't see, and they found other, tinier things spinning around in there, and there were even fewer of those. There were just protons, neutrons, and electrons, and everything that ever was or ever would be was really just another combination of those three things. He wondered who was making a profit off of making up this sort of nonsense, because he couldn't fathom the motivation for doing it otherwise.

He was still trying to puzzle out where the money was changing hands when Hermione walked into the coffee shop. She looked like she was in a good mood, which was nice to see, although he knew she was probably still lying awake at night trying to think of ways to get Dawlish. Her eyes lit up even more when she saw the book in his hands.

"You're reading one of my chemistry books!" she exclaimed, sounding rather shocked.

"Of course I'm reading it," he said, affronted by her surprise. "I let you give it to me."

"Everyone lets me give them books. If they ever manage to open them, it's months later on a long train ride or something, and that's with novels. I gave you a Muggle science text book, and you're actually reading it." She looked inordinately impressed with his incredible display of literacy, and Draco wondered if that was a struggle for Potter and the Weasleys.

"That sounds a bit pointless, taking somebody else's things and then shoving them in a drawer to rot," he said.

She nodded at first, but then she seemed to reconsider, and Draco reckoned she was probably trying to think about other people's feelings on the matter. "I'm pretty sure they mean to read my books, but then they forget and feel guilty about it. What do you think of this so far?" she asked, gesturing to the text.

He tried to think of a tactful way to tell her that she'd fallen for an outrageous scam. "I don't see how they can be so sure about atoms. They say they're too small to see, but they can draw pictures of them. Then they know all these really specific things about them, and then they made up names for the different kinds that they can somehow tell apart. It seems a bit… arbitrary."

She tilted her head, looking pleased, and he knew she was about to unleash a wave of knowledge on him. He braced himself. "Well, the pictures are a rough estimation of what atoms might look like. The drawings in that book are sort of like the way you might draw a stick figure to represent a person. They can see them, though, and they can even split atoms apart with the right equipment. Don't they talk about microscopes in that book?"

"Yes, but I'm not really clear on how those work," he admitted.

"Those are the tools that Muggles use to see things that are too small to see with just their eyes. You put the things you want to look at on a tiny tray, and the microscope magnifies it until you can see all the details. Atoms are too small to see even with a regular microscope, but there's more advanced technology for that."

"Do they have photographs of atoms?" he challenged.

"Yes, they do, actually. It's just more useful to draw the simple pictures, because a photo of an atom would be hard for most people to understand." Draco looked down at his hand and thought about all the little atoms in it, trying to wrap his head around this idea, assuming that it was actually true. He couldn't argue with photographic evidence, especially if Hermione was so convinced about all this. Hermione must have seen his confused look, and she started speaking again before he could respond. "It's very complex stuff - Muggle scientists spend years studying this sort of thing. Most Muggles hate chemistry because it's so difficult to understand, and that's when they've already learned about atoms in primary school."

"And you're absolutely convinced that everything in this book is true?"

"Yes," she said, but it looked like she was trying not to giggle.

"What's so funny?"

She bit her lower lip. "I mean, it makes perfect sense that you'd be skeptical about this, but I've never thought about what it would be like if someone didn't believe in atoms. It's a bit funny, when you think about it - Muggles don't believe in Potions, but wizards don't believe in chemistry."

He reckoned it was a bit funny when she put it like that. If Hermione was convinced about all this, he knew she must have come to that conclusion after tons of research, and she wasn't usually wrong about this sort of thing. Okay, she was _never_ wrong about this sort of thing, as far back as Draco could remember. He also had another, less concrete reason for believing the things she said. It was like the feeling he'd gotten as a child when he'd let his mother cover his eyes before revealing a surprise, or the feeling he had when he knew his broom would hold him up a hundred metres off the ground, or even that certainty he had that Pansy would come back, whether he apologized or not. There was probably a word for that sort of feeling, but he couldn't think of it just then.

"I believe in chemistry," he said. "I just wasn't sure about a few things."

"If you have any more questions about it, you can ask me. I had a really hard time with some of it when I was starting. I ended up meeting with a Muggle tutor a few times."

"Really?" he asked, taken aback, and she nodded.

"I don't just know everything automatically, you know." He sort of knew that, but it was easy to forget from the way she talked. "I see you still aren't going to ask me if I want a drink."

"You always talk about other things until I forget what I'm supposed to be doing." She was very distracting, when she wanted to be.

"Oh, so it's my fault you're not doing your job?" she teased, but he just nodded seriously, and she giggled.

"What do you want to drink, then?"

"I'll have an iced vanilla latte," she said. She kept talking about different chemistry things as he made the drink, some of which he actually understood. He stopped listening to concentrate, though, as he crafted an atom-shaped bubble in her drink. It had little protons and neutrons in the middle, with electrons floating in circles around the outside. When he handed it to her, she stopped talking and gasped with surprise. "That's cool!" She studied it closely for a second. "Do you know which element it is?"

"No, how would I know that?"

"They're identified by the number of protons in the nucleus. This one's got two, so it's helium."

She leaned on the counter and stayed to talk for a while, and he tried not to look down her shirt too much even though it was so easy. He was pretty sure she caught him every time he did, but she didn't look offended. Eventually, another customer came in, and she put her hand over his and squeezed it as she said goodbye.

The customer was an elderly woman, and he grinned at her and helped her pick through the whole menu before she could decide on a drink, but for some reason he didn't mind. He made her a cat-shaped bubble, per her request, and she complimented Draco on his excellent attitude and friendly customer service skills, which pretty much blew his mind. He wished he could tell someone, but nobody would believe him.

**

* * *

**

On Saturday, Draco supervised as the house elves rearranged his living room, moving the sofas and armchairs out and bringing in a semi-circle of wooden chairs. He'd have to remember which one Potter sat in, so he could burn it or something. He'd told his mother the group was coming that day, but he hadn't specified who made it up exactly, and she'd offered to stop by and oversee the meeting. Talking to her about things like that was a bit of an awkward situation, because they still hadn't had their next emotional conversation. He could feel it building up, and pretty soon they'd reach a breaking point, and he'd have to watch her cry again. He didn't think it would be his fault this time, but somehow he was pretty sure that there would be tears.

At ten to five, Will came through the Floo, followed by Bianca, Donaghan Tremlett, and a man Draco remembered vaguely from Hogwarts. He studied his face, trying to place him, and soon realised he'd been a Gryffindor. That was a relief - he'd been worried there'd be a Gryffindor shortage in his home today, seeing as there were only _a_ _million_ of them already planning to come over.

"Malfoy, always a not-so-pleasure," the unidentified Gryffindor said, but he didn't look like he meant it very harshly. In fact, Draco thought it may have been a joke, so he made sure not to look offended. If he was already going to be outnumbered, there was no point making it worse by being a prick.

"I don't recall your name," he said.

"Dean Thomas." He held out his hand. The name rang a bell, but he and Dean had never spoken in school that he could remember. He guessed they must have hated each other on principle, back in the day, but Dean didn't seem to care anymore. Draco shook his hand, and he smiled genuinely, and Draco managed to smile back with some effort.

"I can't wait to get started," Will said, wandering around the room. He turned and noticed Draco and Dean standing together. "You guys remember each other, right?" Draco nodded. "Good, Dean is helping me put all this together. He's into music, too. Don doesn't want to do too much of the planning, but that's cool, because I'm a take-charge kind of guy." He paused to count the chairs. "You'll need seven chairs, though. Can you get two more?"

"Yeah," he said, looking around for a house elf. Gully hurried over when she saw him searching the room, and he sent her off to get the extra seating. He glanced at the clock and tried not to hyperventilate, because in two minutes, Harry Potter would be walking out of his fireplace. He heard the others talking amongst themselves in the centre of the seating area, but he just stood in front of his Floo and waited for the inevitable. Hermione came in first, one minute early. She gave him a weak smile and squeezed his hand quickly, and then she went to go talk to the others. Draco watched her leave, and Will waggled his eyebrows at him in response to the affectionate exchange.

Blaise was next, and he looked with interest at the group behind Draco. "Are those your new friends, then?"

"Two of them are - the one that isn't Granger and the bloke with the glasses."

"Are you going to introduce me?" he asked, and that made Draco feel better, because Blaise was a really good friend.

Despite all the dumb, pratly prat things Draco had done over the years, he still wanted to meet Draco's new friends, even though they were currently talking to the woman that Blaise didn't want him to date. They joined the group, where Blaise shook hands with Will, Dean, and Bianca. Then he turned to Hermione and offered his hand to her, too, even though he looked a bit weirded out about the whole situation. It was only because social laws dictated that he couldn't shake hands with everyone in a group except one, but it was still good to see it. The handshake was quick and awkward, but nobody ran to go puke, and Draco knew it would get better over time. Then, Will raised a hand in greeting, and everyone turned around.

There were Harry Potter and George Weasley in the flesh, standing rigidly in front of his fireplace. Everyone else went to greet them, but Blaise stayed and leaned over his shoulder.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me Potter was in this?" he whispered.

"I didn't have time to tell you. I only found out yesterday," he whispered back.

"You could've sent an owl," Blaise argued.

"You wouldn't have shown up."

"For a good reason," he huffed quietly.

"We have to stop this. It looks like we're plotting," Draco muttered out the side of his mouth.

"We could've been plotting yesterday if you'd given me a heads-up."

Luckily, Will told everyone to go sit down before he had to respond, so Draco took the seat farthest away from the group. Blaise grabbed the spot next to him, and Hermione sat one seat away from Blaise. Everyone else except Dean, Bianca, and Will filled in on her other side, and Draco realised that his poor planning had left him directly across from Potter.

"Who else is coming?" he asked Will, looking at the empty chair.

"My brother's girlfriend, Gwen. You remember her, right? She's usually late for stuff." Draco nodded, trying to resist making eye contact with George or Potter, or really anyone. Whether he looked up or not, though, he could feel the tension in the room.

When Gwen stepped through the Floo a second later, it was so deadly quiet that she did that thing where you instinctively whisper so as not to disturb anything, like at a hospital or a morgue.

"Sorry I'm late," she said quietly, hurrying over to the empty seat by Hermione. No one responded. For once, it seemed that even Will was feeling anxious.

His mother entered just then to oversee the meeting, and everyone turned toward her. She stopped abruptly in the doorway and took in the group, pressing her lips together so tightly that they turned white. Then, she shook her head slowly and walked straight back out.

"All right, this is probably the most awkward room I have ever been in. I can feel the silence sinking into my soul," Will said. "I think we should start with a getting-to-know you exercise, like at summer camp."

"Oh, we know each other," George said, with spite in every word.

"Really, George?" Will challenged. "Name one fact about Drake's personality or interests, then."

"He's a slimy git," he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"George!" Hermione scolded.

"False," Will said matter-of-factly. "That's actually a common misconception."

"Malfoy being a slimy git wasn't on the don't-talk-about list," he said, keeping his eyes trained on Hermione alone.

"Only because I thought you could figure that one out for yourself! It appears that I have overestimated your common decency," she said.

"Well, if you're willing to hang out with him, it looks like you're overestimating a lot of people's decency," George commented.

Draco could see that the Weasley/Malfoy feud was alive and well. He tried to tune George out, but that would be difficult considering Draco was the one with two ears. He decided to try Maggie's trick again of counting, and it actually seemed to help this time, so he kept it up. He hoped Hermione was impressed that he hadn't said anything yet, since it was definitely taking effort.

"I'll go first!" Will said loudly, cutting off Hermione's response. "We'll all go around and name one thing about ourselves. I've played guitar since I was ten years old, and my all-time favourite band is the Libertines. How about you, Dean?"

Dean looked around the room and sucked in a breath through his teeth, and then he looked back at Will, who nodded encouragingly. "I can play guitar, drums, and piano, and I started with piano when I was five. I'm also into drawing and painting," he told the group awkwardly. "Donaghan?"

Donaghan seemed pleased with the situation, like he was immune to social tension or something. "As some o' ye might know, I played bass for the Weird Sisters fer quite some time. Now I run The Basement in Diagon Alley, and hopefully I'll be doin' that fer quite some time as well," he said. "And I want yer all to know how much I appreciate all the help."

Will raised his eyebrows at Bianca, who tried her best to smile at everyone. "I'm really interested in Transfiguration, and right now I'm working on my third book on the subject," she said. "Hermione?"

"Well, I co-wrote one of those Transfiguration books, and right now I'm doing research for a new one about Potions and chemistry," she said, as her nervous eyes darted around at the men in the circle.

"What about you, Gwen?" Will asked.

"Well, I recently appeared in a production of _The King and a Midsummer Month's Rent_ at the Artemis," she said, as calm as Donaghan. Draco figured it was because they were both used to being on stage. "I was the Queen of the Fairies, who was trying to use a love potion to set up the King of Siam with a wealthy Athenian woman, but I didn't have much time because I had AIDS."

Draco glanced around, wondering if he was the only one who thought that sounded like the worst and weirdest play ever, but it appeared that most of the group was thinking the same thing.

"And you were bloody fantastic," Will said, and she smiled graciously. "By the end of it, Bee and I were almost certain we understood most of the plot. How about you, Harry?"

Potter finally quit his staring contest with the floor, but he avoided eye contact with anyone except Will. "Malfoy's in the room, so the only thing I'm allowed to talk about is the weather," he stated. "I guess I'd have to say that I like when it's warm outside."

"My favourite season is autumn," George added, full of cruel sarcasm, and Will gave Draco a somewhat pleading look.

"I'm not supposed to talk at all," he said. He was done helping Will for right now.

"Pass," said Blaise, clearly offended by the question.

"Right, this could hardly have been less helpful," Will said, running a hand through his hair. "I don't get why you're all being such petty little pricks, no offense. You went to school together forever ago. Are you still mad about that time in fourth year when Drake called you a nerd or something?"

"It's a little bit worse than insulting each other. For starters, he made multiple attempts on the life of -"

"Harry!" Hermione cried. Draco glared down at his hands and resumed counting. _101, 102, 103..._

"He asked," Potter said.

"We've already had a very lengthy discussion about this. Do we need to have another one?" she asked in a low voice, and Potter shook his head and looked away. "Now, we are not here for group therapy or to make new friends. We're here to plan a benefit for a cause that we all care about, so let's keep our heads in the game."

"I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm always here to make new friends, and I really hope you lot can learn to get along before this is over," Will said. "Also, don't forget how good it will look for the project if we can get it across to the audience that we all like each other: this whole experience is about coming together and sending the message that blood doesn't matter, and we need to break down divisions both within our society and in wizard-Muggle relations. I mean, look at Drake and Jane -"

"Yes, we've become _friends_," Hermione interrupted quickly. That answered the question of what she'd told Potter and the Weasleys. Will raised his eyebrows at her, then looked at Potter and George in turn, who were both scowling at their shoes. They didn't look surprised, though, so Draco reckoned they'd already been briefed on that portion of the truth.

"Right," Will said, and Draco was gratified to note the disappointed look he shot in Hermione's direction. "Anyway, we'll all be out promoting this thing, and I'm going to be covering it for the Prophet, and I can't publish photos of you all glaring at each other. Maybe we'll have to do some mandatory bonding activities."

"Oh, come on," George whined.

"No, you come on! You know, I have an idea. Has anybody already made plans for after rehearsal next Saturday?"

"I have," said Blaise, and Potter raised his hand.

"Well, cancel them!" Will bellowed. "We'll have a sleep-away retreat!"

"I have a family," Blaise said, and it came out sounding almost like a death threat.

"Me, too," Potter agreed.

"I've got one of those, too, and plus I'll be out of the country," George added.

"I've got a thing that night," Draco said vaguely, inspecting his nail beds.

Everyone else was looking at Will in silent shock except Donaghan, who was becoming visibly bored with their squabbles.

"None of that is true, except the stuff about the families existing," Will said. "Don't you lot have wives, too? I'm sure they could manage without you for one night."

"Ginny's dreadfully ill," Potter said, without looking up.

"She is? Why didn't you tell me?" Hermione interrupted frantically. "What has she got? Is she going to be okay? Do you need me to come and help with the kids?"

Potter showed guilt then, and he even blushed a little bit. "Er… I'm sorry, Hermione, Ginny's not sick," he admitted.

Hermione dropped the worried act instantly. "That's right, she isn't, and you should know better than to use your wife's health as an excuse to avoid bonding exercises," she said, and he put a hand to his forehead and sighed.

Draco had never seen Hermione interacting with Potter or a Weasley in a neutral situation like this, and it surprised him how much their relationship resembled a mother-child dynamic. Potter and George acted like petulant children, Hermione scolded them, and they looked all guilty and regretful, but then ten minutes later they did it all over again. He wondered if they were always like this, or if it was just because he brought out that side of them. He congratulated himself on being the only one who was able to act like a grown-up for a couple of hours once a week, not that it should have been that difficult.

Of course, their uncalled-for antics had put him into an annoying situation once again. There was only one reason why "bizarre camping trip therapy with Potter and a Weasley" wasn't number one on Draco's list of things he never_, ever_ wanted to do, and it was because who the fuck even thinks of that?

"I don't have to go, right?" Gwen asked.

"Not unless you want to, I guess," Will said, "unless you're planning to start acting like a child and calling people slimy gits."

"Will, I don't think this is such a good idea," Hermione said. "We could pose for nice pictures."

"No, I'm afraid you can't. There is no way to manufacture real friendship, and I especially don't think Drake could do it." That was true, so he didn't bother denying it. "We may need to do trust falls."

"No one's doing any trust falls," she said. "That could be dangerous."

"Only if you don't catch each other." Hermione gestured around the room and gave Will a pointed look, which he seemed to ignore. "I'll make arrangements for the retreat and owl you lot about it tomorrow," he said, with a note of finality.

"What if we don't show up?" George said.

"I can tell you right now who's going to show. Gwen, Blaise, and Don aren't going, but the rest of you are."

"How do you figure?"

"Jane will say you have to, and those are the only people in this room who won't listen."

George narrowed his eyes but didn't try to argue, and Draco knew Will was right. He really, really didn't want to go on this retreat, but Hermione hadn't made eye contact with him in a long time, and she was looking very tense and worried. He could practically hear her questioning in her head whether there could ever be a time when it might be even a little bit worth it to keep seeing him with all this conflict. The only way he'd have so much as a chance was if he played along so well that he came out on top as the most polite and friendly person in the room. He had started in last place by default, because Pansy wasn't there, but Hermione liked to champion the underdog. He steeled himself for the reactions he was about to get.

"I think it's a good idea," he managed to choke out, although he couldn't keep the disgust out of his voice. He imagined he could feel his vocal cords trying to throw themselves out of his throat in protest, and everyone whipped their heads around to look at him in blatant astonishment.

"Oh, no," said Blaise beside him, eyes wide. "You're not… are you - ?" He broke off and shook his head, looking ill. Draco gave him a cold glare and then surveyed the rest of the room. Potter and George didn't seem to know what to make of his reaction, and even Gwen looked flabbergasted. Hermione raised her eyebrows, and he thought he saw a trace of a smile for a second. Once Will had gotten over the surprise, he was positively beaming.

"That's the bloody spirit, mate! See how churlish Drake has made the rest of you look? I thought he was supposed to be the bad guy here - no offense, once again." Draco shrugged. He could see Potter's gaze burning into him out of his peripheral vision, so he turned to look, and apparently Potter had taken this as some sort of fucked-up challenge.

"I'll be there," he offered heroically, all four of his eyes glinting with that annoying righteousness, like he was volunteering to personally vanquish Draco with a golden, ruby-encrusted sword or something, while a majestic phoenix perched on his shoulder and a scantily-clad damsel in distress clutched helplessly at his leg. As opposed to what he was really doing, which was agreeing to attend a social function with a person of whom he wasn't especially fond. Draco just barely kept himself from rolling his eyes, but he had to compromise by closing them and rolling them beneath his eyelids. The urge was just too strong to deny it completely.

"It's on," George said defiantly.

"Good, that's what I like to hear," Will said, seemingly oblivious to the testosterone-fueled fight for dominance. Dean and Bianca both seemed really awkward still, like they wished they were anywhere except standing in front of this group. "Now that we've got that all sorted out, let's get down to business. I know you lot aren't performers, but we appreciate the donation of your time – I don't have to reiterate how valuable your names will be on the posters. The good news is that you won't actually need to do any performing: Dean and I will be playing and singing live, to give the audience a taste of that, but we've got spells that'll help you sing and dance. In fact, it'll be impossible to forget the words or the dance moves or freeze up – your mouth will keep moving until the song's over, unless you pass out, so don't do that. In other words, all you have to do is stand on the stage and stay conscious for approximately three minutes. Not too hard, right? Any questions?"

No one moved a muscle.

"Good. Let me know if you've got a song in mind for yourself; if not, we can select one for you." He paused and surveyed the group again. "You guys look like you're all itching to leave, so we can cut this one short and talk about the finale next time. I'll owl you all about the retreat. Well, I'll owl some of you, and others I won't bother, but everyone should show up here at the same time next week. After that, those of you who are using spells to sing and dance won't really need to show up for rehearsals until the end, considering you haven't got much to rehearse."

There was one last awkward pause before Potter decided he didn't mind being the first one to stand up. George quickly followed, and soon everyone was racing to the Floo except Hermione, who remained seated under the pretense of looking through her bag, and she was back to being worried. Will was acting like he wanted to talk to Draco, but then he noticed Hermione waiting, so he waved goodbye and left as well.

Draco left his chair and moved to stand in front of her, and finally she put her bag aside.

"That didn't go so well," she said.

"It wasn't that bad," he lied, quite obviously, and she sighed.

"Yes, it was. It's different to have it actually happen than to picture it in your mind," she said. He didn't really know what she meant by that, but it didn't sound good. "I mean, I don't know how long they'll take…" She paused, with sadness on her face. "I just couldn't stop thinking the whole time… I don't really know what's going on here, but whatever it is, I think we should put things on hold," she finished very quietly, and that one sort of hit him right in the stomach. He stared at her, while his mind went numb.

"I didn't say a bloody word in there," he snapped after a moment. "I hardly think I'm the problem in this situation."

"No, you aren't, and I was proud of you for being so calm," she said, like it was just a normal, everyday thing to say to someone. Little did she know that she, Hermione Granger, was the first person who had ever vocally expressed pride in Draco Malfoy. There was no way this was going to be over now. She couldn't just do that and then put things on hold.

A new surge of determination came on, like in Quidditch when the Snitch was just out of his reach. That was actually a pretty good metaphor, now that he thought about it: he imagined Potter speeding toward him from the opposite direction, but this time he wasn't going to make it in time.

"Don't give up, then," he said, making his voice more confident than he actually felt. "Is seeing me something that you want to do?"

"Yes," she said, which was a relief. He hadn't actually been sure what she would say to that.

"Then, why are you letting people who are supposed to be your friends tell you if you're allowed to be happy?" And why'd they want to do that, anyway? They were supposed to be full of goodness and understanding, but he already knew their little ideology didn't apply to everyone.

"I just think we should give people time to adjust to having you around at all, and then go from there," she said.

"Of course. There's always something more important," he said. It came out more bitter than he'd intended, and he could tell she was worried.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing." He'd rather not get into this with her, having sworn off self-pity and all.

"Please tell me what you mean." Nope. "Please?" Well, maybe. She sort of looked like she was going to cry, which he was absolutely not ready to deal with just then, and he caved.

"It seems like anytime anybody wants to care about me, something always comes up, and I get kicked to the bottom of the list again," he said. It sounded pathetic even to his own ears, but it was also fairly accurate.

He watched her turn it over in her mind; she was sympathetic, then puzzled. "Me too," she admitted softly, "except it's any time I want to care about myself."

"Then, why can't this be the one time where you just say 'fuck them' and do what you want anyway?"

"It's not that simple," she said, wringing her hands.

"It's not? Because when Blaise and Pansy found out I went out with you, that's what I did. They can adjust on their own time. They're supposed to be my friends, so I know they'll stick around even if they don't like some of the decisions I make. And if they don't, I've got other friends now. I don't see why I should put my life on hold right when it's starting to get better just because other people are being judgmental pricks." Great – word vomit again. Draco was really going to have to get that checked out before it got any worse.

Her eyes widened. "You told your friends we went out?" she asked.

"Well, sort of." _Why_? Why couldn't he stop talking? "I took you out in public with the knowledge that Blaise would find out who you were. I did tell my mother, though."

"You told your _mother_?" That shocked her, all right. Now that he thought about it, it was a creepy thing to say after three dates, and he couldn't quite figure out her expression.

"I told her we went on a date, yes. That's all," he said.

"I'm supposed to be the brave one," she breathed. "No offense," she added quickly, and he shrugged again. Nobody ever said 'no offense' unless what they'd said before it was really offensive, and people kept saying that to him today. After a moment, she turned her eyes up sweetly. "You told your mother."

"Am I supposed to be embarrassed here or what?" He was irritated now, and also confused. "Are you happy or freaked out?"

"Happy," she said. Both her hands went up to smooth her hair, and he knew he was back in. This was actually a pretty neat arrangement: he kept doing things right by accident. Every time he slipped and told her something so honest and dumb-sounding that he didn't want to say it, it made her really happy.

"What do you want to do, then?" he asked, more calmly. She took a moment to think about it, and he waited with limited patience.

"How about we keep this quiet until the retreat?" she suggested, finally. "If you guys can spend the night together without killing each other, out in wherever Will decides to take us, then I'll see if I can talk to them."

"I will not kill either of them," he promised, and she smiled half-way.

"Good. I don't think they'll kill you either." She stood then, putting her bag aside. "You really did impress me today. George was trying his best to provoke you."

"It was a concentrated effort," he said.

"I could tell." She stepped closer and put her arms around his neck and her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. He closed his eyes and put his face against the side of her head, tempting the wrath of the hair monster. She clearly wasn't too into the idea of calling things off, or otherwise she would definitely not have given up. Conceding so soon was very unlike her, and he wondered if she'd been bluffing all along, just to see how hard he'd fight.

He pressed his lips to her neck, and she sucked in a quick breath. She didn't try to stop him, so he kept kissing her, moving slowly down to her collarbone. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled him up to kiss him on the mouth, and she was letting herself get into it as much as he was this time. There was always slight undercurrent of resistance from her, but it seemed to be getting lower over time. He moved his hands over her back and her hips, steering clear of all the places he really wanted to touch, because he knew better than to push his luck.

She pulled away from his lips, and he thought she was going to nudge him back as usual, but instead she dropped to his jaw and kissed him tentatively. He pulled her body against him encouragingly, and she continued more confidently until he couldn't remember what other feelings felt like besides really wanting to shag someone. He found her mouth and kissed her harder this time, brushing his teeth against her lower lip. He stopped paying attention to where his hands were going, but she helpfully moved them away every time they got to the wrong place.

Once she'd gotten sick of playing the grope police, Hermione pushed against his chest in the universal sign of, 'okay, I'm done teasing you for right now, because it's still going to be a while before we do anything more than this.' He dropped his hands reluctantly, and she looked so sexy and flushed that he almost had to look away to keep from jumping her.

He kept eye contact, though, because if he didn't she probably would have read into it incorrectly – he was well aware that she was thoroughly analyzing every move he made. This created extra work for him, because he had to attempt to pre-analyze everything he was about to say and do from her perspective and make sure it didn't mean 'I don't like you anymore' or 'I just want a shag' or 'I hate your new dress robes' or something, in woman universe. He'd been accused of thinking all of those things by various women in his life, even Pansy as friends, and it wasn't fair.

"Did you want to go somewhere for a drink?" he asked, before she could say goodbye. "I could use one of those." She considered it, and he noticed that she still hadn't quite caught her breath all the way.

"I don't have any other plans," she said. "Want to go back to Muggle London?" He knew she wanted to go there so nobody would see them out together, but he decided he didn't mind as long as she was going.

"All right," he said. "You can leave your robes here." She took them off and swapped them for her bag on the chair. He took his off, too, and placed them next to hers, and then she led the way to the Floo.


	20. One's Silver & the Other's Gold

_"What makes the desert beautiful," said the little prince, "is that somewhere it hides a well."_

_- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, __The Little Prince_

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**Chapter 20: One's Silver & the Other's Gold**

Hermione brought Draco to a Muggle pub, and it wasn't a bad place. It wasn't too busy, either, so they could still hear each other at a slightly secluded table. After a few rounds, some issue-avoiding, and a few very detailed explanations of scientific concepts, Draco remembered something that had been bothering him. He was drunk enough now to bring it up.

"So, how'd you even get Potter to do this?" he asked. "I thought he wasn't speaking to you."

She sighed, and he could tell she didn't want to talk about it. He knew his question had come out of nowhere, but he'd been going for the element of surprise.

"It's not that we weren't speaking," she said. "We just weren't seeing as much of each other as we used to. He probably would've done this even if I wasn't involved, because he feels strongly about the cause, but I think he's glad for an excuse to help me with something. When I told him about what happened with Dawlish and everything, he felt horrible that he hadn't made himself more available to help. Honestly, I think you guys will be fine if you give it some time and get to know each other a little bit."

"Well, we'll get to know each other a lot this weekend," he said, feeling resentful. She wasn't too keen on talking about Potter anymore, so she latched onto the new subject.

"I really hope Will's not going to take us camping. I haven't been camping since… well, the War," she said awkwardly.

Draco had read about that in one of the many, many Prophet articles and interviews about the life and times of the so-called Golden Trio. Apparently, the world just could not get enough fluff about them - long before he'd encountered her again, Draco's mind had been clogged up with useless information about Hermione, from her favourite colour to the worst birthday present she'd ever received (a Chudley Cannons poster, courtesy of you'll never guess). And her birthday, by the way, was in September.

Even worse, there were all the stupid facts he'd come across and unwillingly retained about Potter, such as – the time when – and how much he – Okay, so Draco couldn't remember a single thing about Potter, but that was because he'd been trying harder to kick that stuff out of his brain. He'd been so busy purging his mind of all things scar-related that he'd completely forgotten to forget the stuff about Hermione.

Now that he thought about it, though, that logic didn't quite follow. Draco hated the news, but somehow he'd managed to read every article about Hermione Granger that had ever come across his notice, in its entirety. Then, he saw that book with her picture on it at Flourish & Blotts, and he bought it for some reason. Even up to the present with all her Muggle books, there was no escaping one simple and very strange fact: Hermione's face made him want to read things. Maybe it was just because she was the poster girl for the written word. Whatever the reason, he was relieved that he hadn't made this connection back when he still thought he hated her, because it would've weirded him out. She was looking at him funny because he'd taken so long to respond, so he got back to the conversation.

"I've never been camping." Of course, he hadn't. It was so obvious he felt silly saying it, but he couldn't come up with anything else – it wasn't like he could tell her what he'd really been thinking about.

"That doesn't surprise me at all," she said. "In fact, I can't even picture it." She giggled, and he reckoned she was trying to picture him putting up a tent or something.

"Neither can I. He'd better not make us do that."

"Yeah, especially since Bianca likes the great outdoors about as much as I do," she said, pulling a face.

She went on to tell him about her childhood experiences with Muggle summer camp until last call, and he was shocked by quite a bit of it. Apparently, Muggles saw fit to expose their children to all manner of strange and terrible beasts, from leeches to snakes to giant spiders, all in the name of summer fun. When the pub was closing, Hermione took his hand and led him back through Muggle London and Diagon Alley.

They tumbled through the Floo into the manor, and she fell forward against his chest, because she was the strangest sort of drunk. It was like she lost all her motor skills almost immediately but retained her mental faculties much longer than was fair. She never slurred her speech, but she sure did stumble around, and it was hilarious.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, because he didn't want her to leave yet.

"Do you have ice cream?"

"Probably." He glanced at the clock, and it was 2:10 A.M., which meant that his mother was certainly asleep. They'd have to be reasonably quiet, but the manor was so large that she wouldn't be able to hear normal speech volume from her bedroom. Hermione stepped back and let him lead her into the kitchen, where Gully greeted them with enthusiasm.

"It is Miss Hermione, come to Master's home!" She bowed before each of them in turn.

"Do we have ice cream?" he asked her.

"It would be an honour for Gully to fetch ice cream," she said, and then she turned and hurried off to obey. Hermione sat down at the small, wooden table in the kitchen, the one where house elves sat while they prepared food.

"That's the house elf table," he said. He didn't want to embarrass her or anything, but the chairs weren't even person-sized. She should've been able to figure it out on her own.

"So?" she asked, like it didn't matter at all. "What, are we going to eat in your dining hall at two o'clock in the morning? You'll sit on one side of the table, and I'll be twenty metres away on the other side, and we'll glare at each other over our ice cream bowls and try not to clink our spoons or think too loudly about how much we hate our stuffy lives?"

He could tell she was joking, but it was almost too true to be funny. In fact, it was so accurate that Draco was surprised she'd never attended a meal in his home, and he was also surprised that she was talking so frankly. She must have been tipsier than he'd realised. "I've never eaten in the kitchen," he said.

"Well, everybody else does it every day. My parents used our dining room table for throwing all manner of rubbish unless we were having company, and then we'd just hide it until they left. It's really just a big shelf."

He couldn't help but laugh at that. It was such a ridiculous thing to say, and usually she didn't say silly things like that. He wondered if she thought them all the time and just kept them to herself, so nobody would know the big secret: Hermione Granger didn't only think in streams of pure logic and reason. He sat beside her, even though it was a bit difficult negotiating his long legs under the miniature table. "I think this table is too small."

"Get over it," she said. "We're not eating in your dining hall. I don't want to eat ice cream in some scary, candlelit chamber while your ancestors stare down at me disapprovingly. I might never be able to smile again," she said seriously.

He opened his mouth and closed it again, because he had no idea how to respond to her anymore. He knew how to fight with Hermione, and he could match her for logic when he really tried his best, but he wasn't used to playful teasing and silly jokes. Of course, leave it to her to catch him off-guard again. He'd thought he was done with feeling confused and oddly disadvantaged every time he talked to her. To top it off, he wasn't so sober himself. "I don't think it would be that bad," he said at last.

"Oh, yes, it would. I smile all the time, so people would think it was weird. You, on the other hand – I don't know if you've ever really laughed like that in front of me until now." She raised her index finger to point at him accusingly. "You don't smile enough, and that's why Bianca keeps saying rain clouds are chasing you. Don't you know how good you look when you smile?" Normally she would have blushed after saying something like that, if she said it at all, but this time she just tilted her head and looked at his face.

"I didn't mean if you never smiled again," he said, bypassing the strange compliment. "I meant eating in my dining hall."

"Oh, well that would be really bad, too." He laughed again at the very serious expression on her face, and she smiled after a second.

"Are you laughing so much because you're drunk or because I am?" she asked.

"Both, I guess." And because they were sitting at the house elf table, which was ridiculous enough to be funny on its own.

"How long do you think it'll be before you can do that when we're sober?"

"I don't know. Maybe if nobody else was around," he admitted.

"Then we'll have to make sure nobody else is ever around," she said.

Gully returned with two bowls of ice cream before he could respond, and she placed them on the table, grinning widely. "Let Gully know if Miss and Master is needing anything else."

"Thank you so much, Gully," Hermione said. "You know, you are really a top notch house elf. One of the best I've ever met."

Gully almost went into paroxysms of joy. Her eyes widened and filled with happy tears, and she bit her tiny lip against the onslaught of emotion. "Gully thanks Miss with her whole heart," she gasped after a moment, and then she bowed so low that her nose almost touched the floor, and she stumbled a bit as she tried to right herself into a standing position again. She left the room slowly, seemingly in a daze.

"It's true, you know," Hermione said after she'd left. "You should really pay her, and all the others."

"I buy them all the games they want," he said, dodging the issue.

"That's a good start. You're way better than most of the others." She paused and smiled again. "I still can't believe you read my book. How long ago was that?"

"I don't know, about seven months or so."

"Why did you buy it?" She hadn't touched her ice cream yet, and neither had he.

"It was in the new releases section, and it had your picture on the cover, and I was curious." He didn't want to tell her his theory about her being the spokesperson for reading, both because it would be weird and because it wasn't a very good theory. He was worried she'd disprove it.

"Because I was on the cover? How long have you had a secret crush on me?" she asked boldly, which caught him completely off-guard.

"That's not why I bought it," he argued.

"So, you did, though, but that's just not why you bought the book," she observed.

He was about to deny it, but he took too long to speak, so she leaned forward and kissed him. He thought wildly about their ice cream for a second, and he wondered if he and Hermione were just not destined to enjoy frozen treats together. He put his arms around her, but the position was a bit awkward, so he pulled her forward to straddle his lap, although he was a bit surprised that she let him do that. Then she started doing other surprising things with her hands and mouth, and he forgot how to think. She didn't stop him as he ran his own hands searchingly over her body, and she kept gasping against his mouth, and he wondered dimly if she was planning to stop at all.

The next moment, he realised that perhaps they weren't destined to enjoy any treats at all that night, because there was suddenly a very angry person kicking up a fuss in his living room.

"Malfoy! Malfoy, I can never find your bedroom in this blasted maze! Get in here!"

Impatient footfalls moved into the hallway, and he thought he could make out the faint undercurrent of a child's sobs with the yelling man, whom he'd quickly identified as Blaise. Hermione pulled back, frightened, like maybe she thought Death Eaters were coming for them. He put a hand over his forehead and sighed dramatically, waiting for the blood to make its way back up to his brain.

"It's just Blaise," he grumbled at last, and she moved off his lap to stand a few metres away, turning her head to follow the sound of the footsteps and continued ranting. Blaise knew where the kitchen was, but he would probably check there last, seeing as Draco sitting at the house elf table and making out with Hermione Granger was basically the least likely thing in the world, ever. "Stay here."

She nodded and sat back down, all sobered up and anxious. Draco, on the other hand, was sobered up and angry. He smoothed out his clothes and stalked out of the kitchen. He eventually found Blaise at the foot of the east staircase, holding his crying daughter by the hand. When Draco met her distressed gaze, it sucked the anger right out of him. Only half of it came back when he moved his eyes to Blaise, who was managing to look intimidating despite wearing pyjamas and a housecoat.

"Quit yelling. You're going to wake up my mother," he snapped quietly.

"Have you been drinking?" Blaise asked, like it was any of his business.

"No," he lied.

"Yes, you have." Before he could react, Blaise raised his wand and muttered a sobriety charm, and Draco shook his head as it cleared of the remaining buzz. Blaise snapped more clearly into focus, which made it easier for Draco to glare at him: there went however many 'pounds' he'd spent on drinks. "Remember what I told you a few days ago?" he continued. "Payback is now. Amarantha is under the impression that your monster -"

"Silversnatch," she interjected tearfully, and Blaise gave her such a tragically helpless look that Draco felt guilty.

"Right," he ground out, turning back to Draco. "Anyway, it has come out of the woods or wherever it would hide, _if it existed_, and has subsequently taken up residence in our cellar. I'm going back to bed because I'm already exhausted, and I've got a lot of work to finish tomorrow before I leave for Germany on Monday. You're going to deal with this."

"Does Daphne know you're leaving her here?" he asked, in a last-ditch effort to stop this from happening.

"No, she's gone back to sleep. I'm going to tell her in the morning, so this is your chance to prove that suggesting you for godfather wasn't the biggest mistake of my life, as she currently believes. If you can get Amarantha to go back to bed, let yourself in and be quiet about it. If she falls asleep here, I'll come to collect her in the morning. Don't screw up. I mean it. Do _not_ screw this up."

He rolled his shoulders and stifled a yawn, and then he reached down to give his daughter a light push toward Draco. She seemed apprehensive, like she thought he was going to be cross with her, and he was hit by a fresh wave of soul-crushing guilt as he recalled the time he'd told her that big girls didn't get scared.

_Don't be a baby_, as Bellatrix had told him on more occasions than he could possibly count. His mother said variations of it, too, even to his father – and there was still something very humourous about the phrase, 'Lucius, do not act like an infant' – and Pansy more than a few, and Pansy's mother and Daphne and Astoria. It had felt natural and obvious to say it to Amarantha, because it seemed to be some kind of female Pureblood catchphrase. A half-blood or Muggle-born witch could shout obscenities at a person all day long, tearing apart everything from his physical appearance to his past to his character, and perhaps that person would cry. But if then a Pureblood witch walked in and told him not to be a baby, it would sting so much more than all the rest.

Amarantha was only five, though, and most people couldn't even remember before that age. He still had time to do a better job. He crouched down and held his arms out stiffly, and she relaxed and hurried forward to latch onto him. He patted her back awkwardly, and he could tell she was trying not to start crying again. Blaise nodded approvingly.

"Good night, Malfoy," he said, and then he headed back toward the living room.

"Daddy won't believe me," she told Draco, after her father was gone. "But you know it's real."

Draco wasn't sure how to respond. Children were confusing, and Draco never quite knew what to say to them. They couldn't have real conversations, and they couldn't understand a lot of things. "It's not real," he said at last. "It's just a story. My aunt told it to me, but I didn't know it was a bad story until after I told you."

"You have an aunt?" she asked, distracted from her anguish.

"I have two of them, but I don't see them anymore." He didn't usually like talking about his family, but he'd do anything to keep her from crying.

"Where did they go?" That was another thing about children - they always had to ask questions, and they could never let anything go.

"They went away," he said. "One of them passed away, and the other one's never coming back."

"Why won't she come back?" From the way she'd asked the question, he could tell that a grown-up hadn't left her yet. At five years old, she still didn't know that people were capable of just walking out and leaving forever of their own free will, and he hoped she wouldn't learn that lesson for a long time.

"She doesn't like us anymore," he said, trying to sidestep the issue. It was a long story, and he wasn't about to get into it at three in the morning.

"Why not?" she asked, as though his answer had only made her more confused.

"Er. We told her not to do something, but she did it anyway." Amarantha pulled back and peered at him closely.

"She did something real bad?" He wondered idly what she'd imagine would be bad enough. Perhaps she thought his Aunt Andromeda had failed to pick up her toys or eat her vegetables.

"No," he said. "We just thought it was bad at the time, but that was a long time ago."

"What did she do?" Children! And you couldn't just tell them to shut up.

"She got married to the wrong person," he said, although he knew that wouldn't explain it to her satisfaction.

"Why?"

Probably, he couldn't have answered that a few months ago. He'd have told himself he didn't know, even though he did. "She loved him, I guess."

"Was he bad?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I've never met him." Amarantha nodded, probably trying to think of another hard question.

"Did you tell her it's okay now?" she asked, and that one threw him.

"It's not that simple," he said immediately.

"Why not?" Children really didn't understand a single thing about the real world.

"Like I said, it's been a long time," he told her wearily, trying to think of a way to change the subject.

"I have an aunt, too," she said. Finally, a declarative sentence: he hadn't realised until now just how much he loved those.

"Yes, I know your aunt." In the Biblical sense.

"She'd come back, even after a long time."

He stared at her innocent little face, and he couldn't explain his reaction to her comment. It was so strange hearing it from a child, because he knew if anybody else had said it, it wouldn't have meant anything. For a second, he found himself wondering wildly if there was a chance Andromeda would come back, if Draco told her it was okay. Maybe they could go over to 12 Grimmauld Place together, if it still existed, and burn his face off that stupid tapestry. As he thought about Andromeda, he suddenly remembered that Hermione was still sitting in his kitchen, probably worried out of her mind.

"I think yours would, too," said a voice off to his right. He turned his head, and he'd been wrong again. Of course, Hermione hadn't stayed hidden, and he felt a bit silly for ever thinking she would. She was standing in the doorway and watching him and his goddaughter, and he wondered how long she'd been listening. Now, it was definitely time to change the subject.

"Did you hear what Blaise said?" he asked her.

"Some of it. What's her name?"

"Amarantha." Hermione walked over and knelt on the floor next to them, and Amarantha turned to her with curiosity.

"Hi, Amarantha. I'm Hermione," she said.

"You're pretty," she said matter-of-factly. "Are you Draco's girlfriend?" Ugh, _children!_

"Thank you," she said with a nervous giggle, smoothly ignoring the second half. "Draco, could you sober me up, too?" All thoughts of avoiding eye contact fled his mind as he turned to her in surprise, and she gave him a puzzled look in return. She'd called him a lot of things to his face, but never that. "Oh, that was weird," she said. "I mean, because she just said it, and -" Instead of finishing her sentence, she raised her left hand and gestured vaguely at nothing in particular.

"That's my name," he said. "You can call me that."

"Right, then," she said. In an effort to get out of this terrible moment, he took out his wand and cast the same sobering charm on Hermione, who sucked in a breath as she shook herself. "Thanks. So, what happened to make Blaise bring her here?"

Hermione started to stand up, and so did Draco, but Amarantha tugged at his shirt with a pleading look. He picked her up with a resigned sigh, and she looped her arms around his neck. "I told her a scary story the other day, and Blaise said if it gave her nightmares, I'd have to take care of her."

"I see. Do you want to hear another story, Amarantha?" she asked the little girl, who nodded vigorously, almost clipping Draco's jaw with the back of her skull in the process. "That's such a coincidence – I have the perfect book for this."

Draco tried not to laugh too hard at that. "Of course, you do," he said. "Just out of curiosity, how many books do you currently have in your bag?"

"Not that many," she said evasively, and Draco would've put his money on more than ten, complete with shrinking and weight reduction charms. "And this one's little. It was my mum's, and I carry it with me most of the time. Come on, it's in the living room."

He hoisted Amarantha onto his hip and followed her. They all sat on the loveseat together as Hermione showed them the book, and Amarantha nestled in between them.

"It's called _The Little Prince_," she said, and she let Amarantha get a good look at the cover.

"What's it about?"

"It's about a pilot who meets a prince from a strange land, and they become friends and travel together around the whole universe."

Amarantha pulled a face. "It sounds boring."

"It's not," Hermione said. "You'll see."

She opened the book and began to read without another word, and Draco was entranced. She had one of those perfect reading voices, strong and smooth and soothing. He glanced down at Amarantha, and it seemed like she'd forgotten her concerns about the book's content, because she was staring wide-eyed as Hermione described all manner of strange and wonderful things.

It was a children's book, but Draco couldn't help but feel like there was a second meaning to everything she said. It was like one big metaphor that he really wanted to understand, so he listened closely as she told them about foxes and flowers and planets and stars. At the end, the little prince went back to his home planet, and the man who'd traveled with him was inconsolable. So was Amarantha, who was sniffling again as Hermione closed the book. She crawled into Hermione's lap, and Hermione rubbed her back and made soothing sounds, but she didn't tell her to stop crying.

"Yeah, it's sad," she said instead. "It makes me sad, too. But the pilot learned a lot from the little prince, and he'll be happier at home."

Amarantha sniffed and nodded into Hermione's shoulder. Draco finally checked the clock, and it was almost four. He was about to suggest that they bring Amarantha back to her house when Hermione pressed a finger to her lips – she was already asleep.

He moved closer to Hermione to whisper in her ear. "What does it mean?"

"What do you think it means?" she asked. Just this once, he wished she'd tell him the answer.

"A lot of different things," he said.

"I think you're probably right in whatever you're thinking," she said quietly. "It's not supposed to be too hard to figure out."

She turned her body carefully to rest her back against his chest, and he put his arms around her.

**

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**

"Malfoy?"

Draco opened his eyes blearily, noting the whole right side of his body was numb. He looked down, and it was because there were two people sleeping on it. Then he looked up, and Blaise was standing in front of the Floo. He felt Hermione tense up and relax again, and he reckoned she was probably pretending to still be asleep. Lucky.

"Good morning," he said, but it came out almost like a question.

"Right," said Blaise, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, thanks for, er, taking care of Amarantha."

"No problem," he said.

"I'll just be taking her home now," he said, stepping over the elephant in the room on his way to the couch. Hermione chose this moment to pretend to wake up, and she handed the little girl carefully to Blaise. "So, bye," he said to no one in particular, as Amarantha laid her head on his shoulder. She appeared to still be half-asleep despite the motion.

He stepped back into the Floo, and Hermione turned to face Draco on the couch, attempting to fix her hair where it had rubbed against his shoulder. It didn't work, of course, and he thought it was funny that she could still manage to have bedhead even though she hadn't gotten anywhere near an actual bed.

"Good morning," she said, and he nodded. "Wow, I didn't think I'd sleep so long. I should be getting back home."

It was still very early, and he would've liked to invite her to his bed for a few more hours, but she didn't seem likely to agree to it. "If you say so," he said.

"Do you work today?" He nodded. "All right. I'll come visit you."

"Okay," he said, and she crawled across the couch and pecked him on the lips and then the cheek. She stood up to collect her things.

"I'll see you later," she said, before waving and stepping into the Floo.

Draco couldn't decide whether he was in a good mood or not. He'd gotten all sorts of annoying soft and mushy feelings when she fell asleep in his arms, and that memory made him want to smile like an idiot. On the other hand, she'd left too soon, and now he didn't think he could get back to sleep. He decided he might as well read the news and eat breakfast, and then he went to have a shower and change.

When he returned to his living room, Pansy was there waiting, sitting very still on his couch with her legs crossed elegantly and her hands in her lap. What sort of people was he associating himself with, anyway? They all just kept walking into his house like they owned the place. He didn't really mind this time, though, because she came back. If breaking and entering was the only way Pansy could think of to express friendship, then so be it.

"Why have you not asked me to be in your show?" she asked, getting straight down to business. He would've laughed at the sheer weirdness of the situation if it wasn't for the very serious look on her face.

"You want to be in it?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course I do. I have an excellent singing voice," she reminded him. He almost told her she wouldn't need one, but he thought better of it.

"I'll ask about it, I guess," he said. He was still too confused to think properly about what he should be saying.

"Let me know when rehearsals will be," she said briskly, and then she stood and tried to walk past Draco to the Floo. Finally, his body caught up to his brain.

"Wait a minute," he said. He wrapped his hand around her wrist, and she turned and snatched her arm away roughly.

"Do not touch me." Just like that, she was seething. Pansy could go from zero to hellcat and back faster than most people could feel a slap to the face.

"If you're going to show up in my living room uninvited, you have to talk to me," he said, pulling a page from his mother's book. He'd never said making rules wasn't fun; it was only following them that sucked.

She rolled her eyes like it was some huge effort, but she didn't try to leave. Another thing Pansy could do, of course, was obey arbitrary rules like the one he'd just invented: it was in her blood, just like it was in his. "Fine," she said. "What do you need to talk about that's so important?"

As if she didn't know. "The last time I saw you, you stormed out of here and acted like you weren't going to speak to me until I apologized, which I haven't done, and I'm not going to. Today, you show up like nothing happened and ask if you can sing a Muggle song at a charity concert. What's that all about?"

"I want to be in the show," she said, as though it should've been obvious. "That's what this is about."

"Well, I'm still dating Granger," he said, trying to get a reaction.

"Do as you please," she said, like an ice sculpture of a Pureblood debutante – which is to say, of course, like a regular Pureblood debutante. He tried to read her expression.

He figured he might as well ask directly: "Hold on, is Granger even the problem here?"

"Of course, she is," she said, and then she slammed her jaw shut so hard they heard it in Japan.

"I can tell you're lying," which was a relief. "You still do that thing with your teeth."

"I went to speech therapy for that!" she said, much more loudly than was polite, but he didn't reproach her for it. In fact, he hoped someday they could all get together to yell inside and run down the corridors and maybe even play Quidditch in the house.

"Well, it didn't work," he said. "If Granger isn't it, what's your problem?"

She took a few deep breaths and gave him the absolute worst, iciest look she could muster. "Look at what you're doing to everyone," she began. Her voice was calmer on the surface, now that she'd collected herself, but he knew it was only a front. "You're only thinking of yourself, as usual. Before you know it, you and Granger and Blaise and Daphne are going to be going out on double dates," she intoned mockingly. "And then you'll be some sentimental glob of ooze for months while you plan some tedious wedding, then you'll have some awful child, and maybe it can be best friends with Blaise's kid, and Harry-sodding-Potter can be its stupid godfather, and then – and then –" She finally lost it and shrieked with frustration, right there in his living room. "Don't you _see_?"

Overall, she wasn't making a whole lot of sense, but Draco thought he could understand her meaning as long as he overlooked all the words she'd actually said. He knew from experience that no matter who was saying it, the phrase 'you're only thinking of yourself' could almost always translate directly into 'you're not thinking of me.' And if 'everyone' became 'Pansy,' her point was clear. She collapsed onto his sofa and threw her head back against the cushion, scowling at the ceiling. He sat on the other side, and it reminded him of Hermione's flat after they'd met with the Minister. He knew how to make Pansy feel better, too, if she'd let him. Sometimes she did, but other times she just wanted to make his mood worse so they'd both feel like crap.

"So, let me see if I have this right," he said. "You didn't mind being alone before because I was, too."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said – without feeling, though. He was pretty sure she wanted him to build her back up, which was a lot better than her tearing him down.

"You're the one who's trying to push me away over this," he said. "You're still my oldest friend, even when we hate each other, and I'm not going to forget about you just because I might get a girlfriend."

He thought of his mother's favourite picture then, and he didn't want to imagine a future where he wasn't poking Pansy in the ribs while she threw rocks at his head - metaphorically speaking, of course. She didn't respond right away, and when she did, her voice was flat.

"If you fall in love with her, tell me what it feels like. I'm curious." She rolled her head to the side to face him. "How did you manage this, anyway? A few months ago, you were all alone, and you were cold and cruel and everybody hated you. How'd you do it?"

Good question. He still felt like the same person inside, but she was right: his life was very different now. "I don't know," he said. "I suppose I just left my house and started letting people not hate me."

"But how did you know they weren't going to this time?" she asked, like out of idle curiosity. He'd have done anything for Pansy's emotional control as a teenager, but now he was glad he'd never mastered it. Maybe he'd never learn to lie and evade and pretend like she could, but that didn't seem like such a useful skill set when there wasn't a war.

"I was pretty sure they would, actually," he said. Somehow, he had this feeling like she was closer to saying what she really meant than she'd been in years. "Nobody's looking, Pansy. It's just me, and you don't care what I think, remember? There's no one here to think you're weak if you admit you feel something every couple years or so."

"That's no one's business except my own," she said.

"What, your feelings?" Just a little more, he thought. Perhaps guilt would do the trick. "Do you even think of us as being friends?"

She sucked in her cheeks and showed him the back of her head. "Yes," she said into his couch cushion, with difficulty.

"Do you care about me?" he asked.

"What is the point of this?" Her voice should've been muffled, but her enunciation was so crisp he could make out every word. "You already know the answers to these questions."

"I don't know how you expect me to know if you can't say it." He waited patiently.

"Fine," she said. She turned back to the ceiling and sucked in a breath through her teeth. "I suppose you could say that."

"Then, tell me the real reason why you're so upset."

She rested a hand over her eyes and sighed, and finally she started talking again in that same dry, monotone voice. "Thirteen men have told me they loved me, but I know none of them really did, because it wasn't me. I wasn't like I was with you – I was different every time. And I didn't love them because I resented them for never trying hard enough to find out who I really was, and I couldn't respect them because they were too dumb to know I was lying. The way I'm acting right now feels natural, but how can I know if this is how I'm supposed to be? I thought everyone was born with their own personality, but I didn't get one." She dropped her hand and looked at him seriously, and her eyes were round and shining with a strange intensity. "Draco, I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life."

Well, that was more than he'd expected. He wondered if something in the air was reacting with everyone's blood – a chemical, perhaps, since it wasn't Veritaserum. Maybe Muggles did have a way to be sure if someone was lying; maybe they were just better at talking to each other. The thing about Pansy was that Draco liked her, and Draco didn't actually like a whole lot of people. She was an acquired taste, to be sure, but if she could just learn to stop pretending sometimes – just for a couple hours out of every day, even – he knew she'd find someone eventually.

"Come on, Pans," he said. He'd heard pep talks before, and he reckoned he could probably give one. It didn't seem hard. "What would you say if I was feeling sorry for myself on your couch? You're not alone. You've got me and Blaise, and you could have a whole bunch of other people if you'd let them get near you, and don't tell me you want what Blaise has."

She scrunched up her nose. "Certainly not. I have no desire to push a miniature human being out of my body like some kind of farm animal. But it would be nice to fall in love for a while." Her tone went up at the end, just enough so he could hear the hope.

"Then do it," he said. "Maybe you should get a job."

"I never thought I'd see the day when you'd be telling me to get a job. What kind of world are we living in these days?" There was an odd sort of smile on her face, like someone had walked by and left it there by mistake, and she had yet to notice.

"I've wondered that, too, but I don't really miss the old one."

She looked at him sideways, and her lips curved back down. "I think we're very similar in a lot of ways, Draco. Would you agree?"

"I don't know which of us should be more offended by that," he remarked.

Pansy almost never laughed out loud, but she had a certain face for when she thought something was especially funny, and she showed it to him then. "That response proves my point. If you like that parallel universe you've been living in lately, then maybe I would, too."

And now, finally, they were getting somewhere. "You can cross over if you want, but you'll have to check your ice-cold bitch routine at the door."

"Never mind, then."

"Fine," he said. "You'll have to hide it in your bra where security won't find it, like that vial of Pepper-Up at the Yule Ball."

"That I can do," she said, and her eyes softened in nostalgia. "I haven't thought about the Yule Ball in years. It would've been a lot more fun if I wasn't still pretending to be in love with you."

"Yeah, it would've." They'd fought the whole time, and not in the fun way. It had been rather exhausting. In fact, the first argument they'd had that evening had been about Hermione, if memory served – Pansy had tried to make him explain all the reasons why she was still the prettier witch, and it had been very difficult because she wasn't. Pansy was good-looking and all, but Hermione had looked much better that night, and facts were facts. (So, how long has Draco secretly had this crush, again? _Shut your mouth_.)

"Do you want that?" she asked suddenly, after a thoughtful pause.

"Do I want what? For you to pretend you're in love with me?" he asked, disgusted.

"Oh, _no_!" she said quickly, just as grossed out. "I mean, do you want what Blaise has?"

He thought about it, considering the pros and cons. Blaise seemed to be happy most of the time, especially when he was with his family. The only cons he could think of were trying to find a babysitter and not getting to shag anyone but Daphne, but Blaise never seemed like he wanted to do that anyway. Oh, and then there was the fact that he'd gone majorly soft, but almost everyone liked him better than Draco; so, perhaps that wouldn't be so bad, even if it felt icky at first. "Maybe," he said.

"This new universe is going to take some getting used to." Her face was unguarded now, and he liked it much better that way.

"It's a big change at first, but I'm sure you'll catch on."

She nodded, thinking it over. "I still don't like her, though."

"Yeah, well, who do you like?" he asked, although he could've said the same for himself.

"I like you, most of the time," she admitted. "Don't change too much."

"If I do, I'll always make sure to regress when you're around."

She smiled again, and then she stood up slowly and he watched her morph back into the familiar ice queen sister thing he knew and loved/hated. He'd always wondered what his mother and Mrs. Parkinson were thinking, raising the two of them together from birth if they were supposed to get married. That was generally a surefire way to make people think of each other as bratty siblings for life. "Well, that's enough of that. Let us never speak of this again."

"Speak of what, that time you told me your real feelings and then we had a heart-to-heart about our friendship?"

She mimed gagging. "That's not regressing. That was pure Gryffindor."

"Fine. How about, that time we got so sick of each other's shit that we had to take a break, and then you were a bitch and I was a prick, but for some reason we decided to prolong our suffering by reinitiating contact?"

"That's far more accurate. Good day," she said. She stepped into the Floo before he could respond.

* * *

_A/N: Fun fact - I initially wanted to title this chapter, "Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Draco," but it was too long._

_Also, my mom gave me her very old copy of Le Petit Prince in French, and I like to carry it around. I usually identify more with Draco in this story for various reasons, but that struck me as something that Hermione might do, too. It's an incredibly beautiful story, unlike any other children's book in the world. It's all available online if you care to read it. It will make you smile and maybe cry. And if you do read it or you already have, I think Draco's like the fox, and Hermione's like the prince. Or maybe Draco's the prince, and Hermione's the flower, or the other way around. Or maybe he's the pilot, and she's the prince. The possibilities are endless. When you view it from an adult perspective, first you're like, "that's such a simplistic view of love." But then you realize, maybe it is that simple._


	21. Group Therapy

**Chapter 21: Group Therapy**

After Pansy left, Draco remembered that he still hadn't talked to his mother. The worst part was that he'd grown an annoying little voice in his head that kept telling him the right thing to do in various situations. He wasn't sure when it had taken up residence there, but sometimes it sort of sounded like Hermione, and he wondered if it came from spending too much time with her. It could be useful at times, but most of the time it made him feel guilty. At the moment, the voice was telling him that this time his mother wasn't going to come to him. He'd have to go out on a limb and make sure she was all right without his father.

He kept expecting to wake up one day and suddenly feel terrible that he'd sent Lucius to prison, or maybe miss him or something, but it kept not happening. In fact, now that his father was gone, he was better than all right. He felt downright good, walking around the manor without having to worry about turning a corner and making eye contact. He'd never really thought the world was a place of justice, and he still wasn't fully convinced; however, there was some, and it had finally caught up with his father. It turned out that people couldn't just go around stealing people's childhoods and fucking over their families and killing innocent shopkeepers forever. Someday, somehow, it would all come back with a vengeance, with some delicious irony drizzled on top.

He checked the clock and found that he had enough time before work to have a conversation with his mother, but not so much that he wouldn't have an out when the situation got uncomfortable. He went up to her wing of the manor, where she was sitting quietly on one of the sofas in her lounge.

"Hello, mother." He stepped closer to her cautiously, like he was trying to feed a stray cat or something. He tried to send nonthreatening vibes in her direction and avoid making sudden movements.

"Oh, hello, Draco." She sounded distracted, like she wasn't sure whether he was real or a hallucination and didn't much care.

He reckoned he'd start with the basics and see how it went. "How are you doing?"

"I am mourning your father," she said, gesturing to her black velvet dress robes. Well, that explained why she hadn't come downstairs. Mourning for pure-bloods wasn't a community experience like it was for other people: everyone went to his own room and stayed there for a couple of days, calling house-elves for food, and he thought it was a practical system. After all, some people were always going to more torn-up than others when there was a death, and it would be uncomfortable to keep them in the same room with the ones who were glad to be rid of the deceased and/or had been the one to poison him in the first place.

"I see," he said, shuffling his feet awkwardly. The thing was that his father wasn't dead, and he wondered how it would feel if he were.

"Why aren't you? I think you are avoiding this, Draco." She eyed him accusingly, and he looked away. It would feel different, he decided. If Lucius had actually died, they couldn't have had that last conversation in Azkaban, and he wouldn't know how his father really felt about him. It was easier not to mourn a bloke when he wished you'd never been born.

"No, I'm not," he said. "I avoided him when he lived here. Now he doesn't, so I don't have to."

"Do not get smart with me, young man." He was just being honest, though. It was an accurate assessment of the situation.

"Well, you're the one encouraging me to feel emotions. I thought we didn't talk about those," he pointed out. His mother had, in the past, reprimanded him for having too many feelings. That was a very long time ago, but it wasn't as though he'd forgotten.

"Your father didn't talk about those. Now, we may do the things that he would not," she said, with feeling. He didn't know what she was referring to, exactly, but he could tell she meant it.

"For example?" he asked, bewildered, and she stared off into space and smiled fondly.

"I'm not sure yet, but I will find out."

The way his mother was talking then reminded him of his visit to Monaco, right after the arrest. She hadn't talked like this when his father was still around; in fact, she rarely spoke at all except to make polite conversation and harp on his manners. She seemed more alive without her husband and younger somehow, like she'd automatically reverted back to the person she'd been the day before they met.

"I was thinking about something," he began, because she was in such a weird mood anyway.

"What is it?" she asked, in a tone like he could ask her anything he wanted. Any question in the world, and she wouldn't mind.

"When was the last time you talked to Andromeda?"

Well, maybe not any question, it turned out. Her face was gloomy for a second, but then she recovered and made it reproachful. "Why would you ask about her?"

He shrugged, wondering if he should just drop it and change the subject. He pressed on precisely because it felt hard, though, and that's how he knew it was probably the right thing to do. He didn't think he'd regret it. "I was watching Blaise's daughter yesterday, and she was talking about her aunts. Do you miss her?"

She didn't take time to think about it – just handed him the party line. "It has been a very long time. So long, in fact, that such questions are meaningless and irrelevant."

That was about the same thing she'd told him as a child, the first time he'd asked about her other sister, but he wasn't going to let her get away with it this time. "I don't know if that's true."

"Why are you so concerned with this?" She was showing irritation, and he could tell his questions were starting to get under her skin, but he didn't stop. For one thing, this wasn't just about her: he'd been raised by the horrible half of his family, and he reckoned he had a right to meet the ones who weren't evil before they died or he started a family of his own.

"She's my aunt," he said. "We haven't got any other family left." And good riddance, by the way. He ticked off names in his head: Aunt Bella, Uncle Rodolphus, Grandpa Abraxas, Grandpa Cygnus, Grandma Druella, Grandma Octavia, his father. The only ones he almost missed were his grandmothers. Octavia Malfoy was never nice but had always given him candy, while Druella Black had always taken away his candy but said nice things. He'd heard a rumour from Bella that Druella had never liked Lucius, which made him want to respect her on those grounds alone; then again, Bella herself had very obviously disliked Lucius, so he'd never know the truth.

Narcissa pressed her lips together. "Did you think I would appreciate being reminded of that?"

Did she think he'd appreciate the fact that she'd forgotten? He knew she hadn't, though, and he knew she never would: she hadn't just been feeding him a line when she'd told him family was the most important thing. Sometimes she messed up in the execution, but she did believe in it. He could tell by the waver in her voice.

"You can do something about it," he said. "I can't very well owl her myself. We've never even met." She twisted her wand between her hands in her lap, and he wondered if she was mulling over hitting him with a good old-fashioned Ear-Boxing Hex for trying to tell her what to do. She didn't seem irritated anymore, though, just small. Without his father, she didn't only seem young in the positive sense of the word; she had uncertainty, too, and maybe even fear.

"I've been faced with some difficult decisions in my life, Draco," she said, "and I cannot change them now."

Before he could stop himself - "You still have a choice."

Her eyes snapped while her right hand clenched itself around her wand, and he knew he'd shocked his poor mother again. If he were still eleven years old, her next words would've been _Oricula Pulsum_, and he'd be stumbling around holding his head in his hands until he learned a thing or two about disrespecting his mother.

He was too old for that, so she put the scolding into her voice. "We have nothing to say to each other," she said.

He knew he should've dropped the subject, since she was stone-walling him anyway, but he wanted to ask her one more question. "Do you still think she was wrong?"

He'd thought it would make her even angrier, but instead it knocked the wind right out of her sails. She let her wand fall back into her lap and considered it for a moment, gloomy again. "I think that perhaps I was wrong to believe that I had the right to any opinion whatsoever."

Maybe there was a plus side to being good at antagonizing people, he thought. If everyone was too polite to hassle each other sometimes, they could all hide things forever, and the pleasantries would become a lie. He might never get to be the hero, but he could be the thorn in someone's side that helps her find the spider bite next to it before it gets infected.

And so he continued, full speed ahead. "But if you did, what would you think?"

"Are we still talking about my sister, Draco?" she asked shrewdly.

"Why are you avoiding the question?"

She sucked in her cheeks and glared at the wall over his shoulder. "Fine," she snapped, and he scored himself another point. He'd broken down her defenses just like he had with Pansy. "If you are so determined to talk about this, then I will talk."

She paused like she was waiting for something. After a second, he realised what she wanted and took a seat beside her on the sofa. She readjusted her posture and began to tell her story.

"In terms of everything except our ages, I have always been the middle sister." Once she'd started speaking, the words moved easily across her lips, as though she'd gone into a trance. "Dromeda was self-righteous and demanding, and she always had to have her way. She refused to hear reason on any matter, from her improper style of dress to her choices in men to her political alignment. Bella was strange and confusing, and I never knew what she was thinking; I always felt as though I had to protect her, even though she was older. She was an ill-contained creature who seemed liable to explode at any moment. Dromeda was headstrong and intimidating, and I was in the middle. I was beautiful, but not like they were, and I knew some things, and I thought it would be enough. I thought those few things I knew were important and true." She paused and stared down hard at her hands. "I made my decisions based on the information I had at the time, and I chose the wrong sister."

She said the last part so quietly that Draco almost didn't hear her, and he wasn't sure how to respond. She started talking again after a moment, so he didn't have to.

"Our lives are so strange, Draco. It seems that I am always mourning people who are still alive. I mourned Dromeda on her wedding day - she sent me one last owl the day before. She said I could still be a bridesmaid if I attended, that she'd find me a dress. I never told anybody about that, not even Bella, and I think I've still got the letter somewhere. The strangest part of all was that I really believed I made my own decision that day." She closed her eyes briefly and put her hands on her forehead, speaking into her lap.

"I mourned Bella in the beginning of the First War. I told her it was most unbecoming for a woman to take the Mark. She said Alecto had done it, and I told her Alecto was a common girl, and Bella wasn't like her. She didn't listen, and she did it anyway. When she saw me in these robes the next day, she knew exactly what I was doing. I still remember how she laughed at me. 'Cissy, am I dead? I hadn't noticed, but I suppose it's as likely as anything.'"

Draco was supremely creeped out by his mother's very accurate imitation of Bellatrix. She even sounded mad.

"She turned it into a joke after that," she continued, in her own voice. "When you were born, she said, 'it's most unfortunate that little Draco hasn't got any aunts.' I mourned Severus on the day that we made the Unbreakable Vow. I mourned Sirius when he was sorted Gryffindor. I've lived my whole life surrounded by ghosts, and I was just in the middle. With regards to your previous question, I'm the last person you should be asking if you want to know whether I think something is wrong."

If Draco thought he hadn't known what to say before, it was nothing compared to how confused he was now.

"But I have never given up on you," she continued, oblivious to his discomfort. "You spent time in the middle, too. I remember, because all I could do was catch you and keep you there with me for a little while. Now you talk like Dromeda, and it gives me hope to see that you will not listen to me anymore. After all, why should anyone do that? It happens so rarely that I wouldn't even know what to say."

"I'm listening to you now," he said.

"But the conclusions that you will draw are out of my hands." She raised her wand and _Accio'd_ an old photo album from across the room. "Come closer."

He moved to look over her shoulder, and she opened the photo album and searched through it slowly. It was full of pictures of the Black sisters during their teenage years up through their early twenties, mostly on summers home from Hogwarts. Near the end, there was a photo of Narcissa, Bellatrix, and Andromeda in extravagant dress robes in front of the family tree tapestry. Narcissa was young and serenely happy, and Bellatrix looked surprisingly normal and shockingly beautiful. Andromeda seemed joyful but anxious, and she kept gathering her sisters and hugging them close to her sides, where they squirmed in the too-tight embrace.

"This was taken on Dromeda's twenty-first birthday. It's the last picture I have of her, and you can see her secret plain as day. She was saying goodbye, and I didn't even know it." She closed the album and handed it to Draco, giving his hand a light squeeze. "Do not worry about me. I am no stranger to sorrow. People die every day, even when they don't."

She was finished, he could tell. That was the end of the story. Recognising his cue to leave, Draco stood and took the photo album back to his bedroom, where he left it on his bed. He hadn't seen many pictures of this time in his mother's life, and he was curious.

* * *

Saturday. The fateful day came much as it had the previous week, with Draco pacing around his living room as he watched the house elves set up for the next meeting of the People Draco Malfoy Doesn't Want in His House Club. Well, he did want some of them around, but not at the same time as the others. His mother had stopped wearing black sometime around Wednesday and immediately began acting like nothing had ever happened. She'd told Draco that the previous Saturday, she'd remembered a prior engagement just as the meeting had begun. It was an exceedingly obvious lie, but they both pretended to believe it anyway. She was determined to attend this one, though, so she was sitting in the far corner of the living room and making Draco even more anxious. He'd packed his overnight bag, and he kept glaring at it like it was the bag's fault he had to spend the night in Hell.

Will, Dean, Donaghan, and Bianca arrived early again, and Draco introduced them to his mother, who greeted them politely before returning to her perch.

He addressed Will while they waited for the others: "You still haven't told me where you're taking us."

"You're right, I haven't. I'm going to reveal it at the end of our meeting today, so get excited," Will said, and Draco fixed him with a disapproving glare. He moved his gaze to Bianca in the hopes that she'd crack.

"He hasn't told me, either," she said apologetically.

"Fine," he said. He'd just have to find out at the same time as Potter. He chose a chair and looked at the floor as the rest of the group filtered in. Blaise sat beside him and nudged his arm.

"Hey, Malfoy. I just thought you should know: you aren't the worst godfather in the world."

"Thanks, that's so kind of you," he said sarcastically.

"What story did you tell Amarantha? She made me go out and get her a plush fox. She was trying to explain why, but it was confusing."

"I'd have to ask Granger. It was her book." Blaise closed his mouth into a hard line, and he decided to change the subject as quickly as possible before the silence had a chance to drag on. "Pansy wants to be in the show, too."

That got a reaction so strong that Draco could tell he'd forgotten all about the first statement. "_What?_ Are you sure it was really Pansy?"

"If someone wanted to impersonate her for some unfathomable reason, they would probably know to be a bit more convincing," he remarked. In fact, it had been a more real Pansy than he'd seen in quite some time, but he knew she wouldn't want him to tell Blaise about the rest of it.

Will moved to the front of the group and cleared his throat before Blaise could respond. "All right, let's begin. I selected some music videos to watch, just so you all can get an idea of what it looks like if you've never seen a Muggle concert. Bee, if you would."

Bianca pulled a strange object out of her bag and unfolded it like a sideways book, placing it on a table in the centre of the room. She knelt in front of it and tapped her fingers across the lower surface quickly, which caused the little screen to change colours. Once she'd finished setting up whatever it was, she used her wand to project the contents of the screen onto the wall.

The music videos were interesting, but Draco was having trouble concentrating. He was too busy dreading the retreat, and he wished that this meeting would hurry up and end so he could at least find out what he was in for. He glanced around the room a few times, and everyone seemed to be on the same page about that. Hermione couldn't stop wringing her hands, and Potter and George were sitting very straight in their chairs with fists clenched beside them. No one said a word except Will. After forty-five minutes that lasted far longer than the entire previous week, Bianca closed the music video machine, and Will addressed the group.

"Now, before I reveal the plans for tonight, there's one more thing to discuss: the finale. We're still deciding what song we want to do, but it'll be a group number with everyone who's willing to come back out. Drake's friend is going to be joining the fold as well. That makes an even split between men and women, minus Don, so I can partner you all up for the dance."

Potter looked around the room suspiciously, probably trying to figure out if his defenseless little princess was going to be partnered with the evil guy. "What friend?" he asked.

"I haven't met her yet, but her name is Pansy."

"Parkinson?" Potter sputtered.

"Do you have a problem with her?" he challenged, and Potter glared at him. Sure, he'd hex somebody for Pansy, any day of the week. That's what friends are for.

"I'm sure nobody has a problem with anybody," Will said, in a voice he must have thought would be soothing. "Speaking of which, it's that time. Everyone who isn't going to the retreat can clear out now."

Blaise punched Draco in the arm before standing up. "Have fun, mate," he said, before cackling all the way to the Floo. Dean must have managed to get out of going, too, because he left along with Gwen and Donaghan. His mother chose that moment to slip quietly from the room, with a concerned glance to Draco on her way out. Will grinned around at the remaining six, despite the sour looks he was getting from every angle.

"So, I've rented a cabin for us," he said. "It has three bedrooms, one bathroom, and very limited spaces for you guys to hide from each other."

"Three bedrooms?" Draco asked in terror, after doing some math in his head.

"Yes. I'm going to be rooming with my wife, obviously, which leaves the four of you to decide amongst yourselves."

Draco looked up in time to catch the end of Potter's inner turmoil playing across his face. "I'll room with Malfoy," he said, like he was offering to subdue a Blast-Ended Skrewt before it reached the children.

"Oh, good, you can protect everyone else from me," he mocked.

"That's right, I will," Potter said seriously, evidently missing the sarcasm.

"No one will need protecting," Will corrected. "This is going to be fun."

"Is everybody ready?" Bianca asked. Draco could tell she was nervous, unlike her husband. "Our Portkey will be leaving in about five minutes."

She pulled an empty butterbeer bottle from her bag and placed it on the table, and everyone collected their bags and stepped forward cautiously to surround it.

"I don't want to room with Potter," Draco complained, although he knew it was probably too late, thanks to Potter's overeager volunteer instinct.

"It's already been decided," Will said, smooth as butter. "And he wants to room with you, so who are you to turn down his gracious invitation of friendship?"

"Er," said Potter. "That's not exactly what I was getting at."

"Why not? You don't want to be friends with Drake?"

"That's not really a fair question –"

The Portkey activated before anyone could say another word, and the group was thrown into the middle of a cramped living room, on a bearskin rug. Will took them on a tour first thing, rambling about the tiny kitchen and the dingy bathroom as though they were all very pleased to be there. Draco kept trying to catch Hermione's attention, but she was avoiding eye contact. Will dropped Draco and Potter off in their bedroom, where the two twin beds were only a few feet away from each other, and Draco sort of wished he'd killed himself back when it wouldn't have surprised anybody.

"I'll come to collect you two for our first activity in an hour," Will called, hurrying out the door and closing it behind him. Maybe Will's Gryffindor roots had given him a sixth sense for knowing when other Gryffindors needed to discuss their feelings, because Draco scarcely had time to put his belongings on his bed before Potter started talking.

"Look, Malfoy, before we can even begin to talk about anything else, I need to know if you're sorry for what you've done," Potter said, narrowing his eyes in a way that he must have thought was intimidating. Draco returned the cold look, only he was better at it.

"That won't be a problem, seeing as we're not beginning to talk about anything."

Potter's face hardened even more, but Draco could see his determination. He missed his other friends – Potter was taking this pointless little conversation more seriously than Pansy had taken her fiancé, that one month when she'd been engaged. "Yes, we are," he said. "We're stuck here all night together, and we're going to have to, so let's start at the beginning. Are you sorry or not?"

That was the wrong question to be asking, for a lot of reasons. "Sorry for what, exactly? Am I sorry for trying my most half-arsed to carry out a task I didn't want to do while the Dark Lord held my mother hostage? I guess you could put it that way." He curled his lip, and he felt the need to remind Potter of a few of the better things he'd done, too. "Am I sorry for not telling them your name when I knew it was you? _No._ Am I sorry for helping Granger put my father in prison? _No._ And finally, am I sorry for the Potter Stinks badges? Absolutely not."

"Are you sorry for calling Hermione a Mudblood?" As if it concerned him at all. Potter thought everything was his sodding business.

"That's between me and Granger," he said.

"So, you've told _her _you're sorry, then." Draco read the sarcasm loud and clear, and he didn't dignify it with a response. "You can't expect anyone to forgive you for anything if you won't even ask for it. If you haven't apologised to her, then you'd better tell me right now. Are you sorry or not?"

He hadn't asked for any forgiveness, though. How much could it really help him, anyway? It wouldn't change anything, if Potter someday decided to 'forgive' him. He tried to get his emotions under control, closing his eyes for a moment. "I'd like to see you get told something every day of your life from birth and not believe it," he said.

"So, you still believe it, then?" Like he'd known it all along and had just been waiting for Draco to admit it. He didn't know shit, though. He had no idea what he was talking about.

"No," he said, grinding the word across his teeth. This little heart-to-heart was taking on a life of its own – he could feel it spinning out of control, and he didn't know how to stop it.

"Then stop trying to make this harder than it is," like he thought he was winning. "Are you s_orry_."

"Fine," he spat, and the emotions took over despite his best efforts. He looked at Potter and saw red. "I'm fucking _sorry_, all right? Don't you think I regret wasting all those years of my life? Don't you think I wish more than anybody that none of that shit ever happened? You always had somebody around to make you feel better, and now it's over and everybody just _loves_ you," he mocked. "All I ever had was the ice-cold, frosty touch of my mother and Pansy Parkinson – and don't forget Aunt Bellatrix – a couple of bodyguards, and my father to tell me to get over it. You try not being a prick when that's your bloody support system."

Potter gaped at him, angry at first, but then the rage faded slowly and gave way to guarded curiosity. Draco's anger wasn't going anywhere just yet. In fact, it grew stronger in the face of Potter's self-control. "That was all your own fault," he said.

"You think I don't know that? Thanks for pointing it out, though. It's really helpful to hear it again, especially from _you_." He'd been trying to make the other man mad again so he'd have some company, but it didn't work. Potter was steadily calming down, and it was like his discarded rage was flowing straight into Draco.

"I didn't think you'd admit it," he said. He had the nerve to sound surprised, as though he really thought he knew anything about Draco.

"It's not exactly a secret," he spat. His body was so stiff he couldn't move if he wanted to, and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. "It's all my fault that my life was so awful, and my family's a bunch of rotten criminals, which is also somehow my fault. That's just common knowledge. That's the Malfoys, right? 'Fuck them, why can't they be good, like us?' That's what everybody thinks, but I don't think the rest of you are so much better. It must seem really easy to be such a fucking hero when you don't have to get through a miniature identity crisis anytime you want to help somebody."

Potter cocked his head to the side, with that same bloody neutral expression. "That reminds me, why _did_ you help Hermione?"

"Because she didn't know what she was getting into! She was going to write her book with one-tenth of the knowledge she'd need to change anything, risking her life in the process. She didn't even know Death Eaters had anything to do with it. She wouldn't have known to watch her back. I wanted her to stop the whole thing, but she wouldn't."

More surprise from Potter, the wannabe know-it-all. "I'm trying to understand here, but nothing you're saying is making sense to me," he said warily. "Are you telling me that you put your own father in prison so Hermione would be safe?"

"Do I have to explain every little thing to you?" he asked, but it was a cover for what he was really thinking. It confused him to hear Potter put it that way, because he hadn't made that connection for himself yet. In his head, he'd been trying to stop Hermione so she wouldn't get herself killed by some unspecified threat, and then she'd convinced him to go along with her plans, and eventually his dad had ended up in prison. It had felt like a series of semi-coincidental events that he hadn't caused but had merely failed to prevent, and his anger ebbed at last as he considered things in a different light. When he came it at from the perspective of Potter the Perpetual Hero, making his already-dodgy reputation even worse and laying down his family's status for the sake of justice and Hermione Granger was sort of… well, it was a rather heroic thing to do.

He looked down at his hands in surprise, and he forgot Potter was there for a split second as he felt an odd rush of pride. Hermione must've been interpreting the situation in the backwards Potter way the whole time, and that meant Draco didn't have to wonder why she wanted to be with him anymore. And to top it all off, he finally figured out the second reason why he'd helped her: he'd done it not only because she was in danger, but also because it was the right thing to do.

When he snapped out of it, he made sure to guard his expression again, but it may have been too late. Potter already had a stupid look on his face, with his eyebrows raised and his mouth hanging open unattractively. "You did, didn't you? And you didn't even know it until now."

"Don't act like you know the first thing about me," he muttered.

"You know, maybe I don't." He was clearly considering this possibility for the first time, and Draco scowled at him. "I have one more question," he said. His face got all bunched up and sour, but he pressed forward bravely, and Draco braced himself. "Do you have… intentions beyond friendship toward Hermione?"

He didn't know what to say. It was the worst kind of trap. If he said no, Hermione might think he wasn't willing to stand up to Potter because he didn't care enough. If he said yes, she'd be upset that he told her friends before she was ready. "That's none of your business," he said at last.

Potter's eyes went wide with horror, and Draco realised how transparent he'd been. If the answer had been 'no,' Draco would've been grossed out and said so immediately. "What does she think about this?" Potter asked, like he was actually afraid of what the answer might be.

"Ask her," he said, backpedaling. "How should I know what she thinks about anything?"

"I don't even know what to say." Potter hadn't bothered to listen, as usual. "I'm sure you already know I'll break every bone in your miserable body if you hurt her."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Of course, the standard chest-beating protector response. What are you, her dad?"

"No, but you know what her dad is?"

"A Muggle," he said. He did know that, and he didn't care anymore.

"Yes, but that's not what I meant. He's a dentist. And do you know what that is?" Draco shook his head reluctantly. "Dentists are Muggle torture specialists. They have a toolbox full of pliers and steel drills and needles and sharp, metal hooks, and they tie you to a chair and pry your mouth open. Then, they scrape and drill and yank out your teeth until they feel like stopping, and you want to know what they do next?" Draco tried to keep a neutral expression, despite his rapid heartbeat and the sweat that was forming on his palms. "They take your money and tell you when you have to come back for more. Or _else_."

Draco felt his jaw clenching involuntarily, and he only had one question: "Why?"

"Because they like it," Potter said darkly, and a chill ran up Draco's spine. Aside from the whole Muggle thing, maybe his father and Granger's father could've got on better than he might have thought. "So I'd be careful if I were you, if you like your teeth how they are," he threatened.

"I'm done talking about this," Draco said, trying to sound as bored as possible, but he couldn't help but run his tongue over his front teeth self-consciously.

"So am I, and I still think you're an opportunistic bastard of highly questionable moral character," Potter said, but he kept standing there instead of storming off like Draco wanted him to. After a tense pause, he slowly stretched out his hand with a grimace. Draco eyed it with a mixture of disgust and confusion, and Potter had his stupid determined face on again. Draco decided to hold off for a moment and see if he'd withdraw it, but he didn't move a muscle. He just stood and waited, holding out one rigid arm and looking him in the eye.

"Fine. I think you're a self-obsessed wanker," Draco replied. He snatched Potter's hand roughly and jerked it up and down once. Potter squeezed back just as hard before letting go, and then he nodded and left the room.

Draco sat on his bed, thinking about how much everything sucked, and a few minutes later there was a knock on the door. "What do you want?" he called. Hermione cracked the door, signaling that Gryffindor feelings hour wasn't over yet. He was glad it was her and not George, at least.

"I saw Harry in the kitchen, and he looked upset," she said, lingering in the doorway. "Is everything okay?"

"I can't speak for Potter, but I'm just peachy," he said, still grumpy. She sat beside him on the bed. He could tell she wanted to talk about Potter, but he figured he'd beat her to the punch and change the subject. "Is your father really a dentist?" he asked, which confused her.

"Yes, and my mum. How did you know about that?"

She must have been embarrassed that he'd found out, but he wasn't going to judge her for it. "Potter told me," he admitted. "Really, even your mum? How is that legal?"

"What, dentistry?" she asked, bewildered.

"If that's what you want to call it," he said, affronted by her casual attitude. Maybe this sort of thing was normal in the Muggle world, but so were house-elves in the regular world, and Hermione wanted to put a stop to that. He was shocked that she wasn't working tirelessly to fight this so-called 'dentistry' at any cost, even if it meant ending her parents' reign of terror. It was a bit hypocritical.

"Hang on," she said. "What exactly did Harry tell you about dentists?"

"Everything," he said, somewhat reproachfully. "He certainly didn't spare any details."

"Details about what? Draco, dentists are a type of Muggle doctor that takes care of your teeth."

He was about to call her on rationalising the whole brutal process when he realised that Potter was a big, fat liar. "Oh, that complete prick," he lamented.

"What did he say?" she demanded.

"He said they were torture specialists who yanked out people's teeth for fun. I can't believe I listened to him." This was the last time he'd make that mistake.

"Why were you two talking about dentists, anyway?"

"No reason," he said, but he knew she wouldn't believe him.

"No, he was talking to you about my parents. Why?"

"Fine." It was time to tell Hermione the truth, _again_, and that was another reason he missed his other friends – he was allowed to lie to them. "He was trying to make me afraid of your dad."

Her eyes widened, and he could tell she was making the connection and gearing herself up to panic. "Did you tell him we were dating?"

"No, he asked if I wanted to. I told him it was none of his business, and he reckoned that was a 'yes,' because he thinks everything is his business. Then he tried to get me scared of him, which obviously didn't work, so he had to make up outrageous lies about your family. You know, typical _hero_ stuff."

Everyone thought Potter was some kind of wonderful, perfectly honest person, but Draco knew better. It was those stupid glasses - they made him look wholesome and nonthreatening, not to mention unattractive. If Draco had just-rolled-out-of-bed hair and ugly glasses and puppy-dog eyes that looked like they were about to well up with tears at any second, people would be lining up to comfort him. But, no: Draco had perfect hair and stony eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass. He wondered if it was worth it to be so attractive if it meant that nobody felt sorry for him, but Hermione seemed to manage anyway, and that was good enough for now. She wasn't feeling sorry for him in that moment, though.

"Harry just doesn't trust you yet," she defended. "Why did he ask you about dating me at all?"

"I don't know. Like I said, he thinks everything is about him and that everything I do is for the purposes of evil. He wanted to know why I helped you, as though I've got some kind of dastardly ulterior motive," he said, rolling his eyes dramatically.

"What did you tell him?" she asked, and he thought about his little epiphany earlier. He didn't know how she would take it if he told her about that.

"I said I wanted you to stop digging for information, because you didn't understand who you were dealing with."

She nodded slowly, and Draco knew she wanted to know everything he and Potter had said to each other, word for word. It was only a matter of asking a hundred carefully-worded questions in a row. He looked around casually, trying to think of a way out of the interrogation. "So, when Harry found out that you wanted to date me, he threatened you?"

"Yes, not that I care about that."

"What else did you talk about?"

"He accused me of all sorts of nefarious wrongdoing, and I set the record straight," he said, being intentionally vague.

"What sort of wrongdoing?" 'Never give up - ever, ever, _ever_.' The Hermione Granger motto.

"I don't remember. The allegations were outrageous." He couldn't make it out the window without her noticing, obviously.

She eyed him critically, and he schooled his features into a neutral expression. "Well, was he satisfied with your explanations?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know. He insisted on shaking my hand." Perhaps he could fake a seizure.

"Did you?"

"I suppose you could say that." If he wished really hard, maybe the cabin would collapse or catch fire, and they'd all have to run and forget about talking to each other –

She smiled then and sighed with relief. _Never mind, cabin, it's over. No need to explode_. "That's a really good sign," she said.

There was another knock on the door, right when he'd finally made it through the last obstacle course.

"You might as well just come in," he said. "This is where the party is, apparently."

Will opened the door and grinned at the two of them. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No," Hermione said quickly.

"No," he agreed forlornly.

"Well, it's time for our first group activity, so follow me." He stopped and reconsidered. "Drake first, then Jane after five minutes."

"Good thinking," Hermione said. She stood up and waited in the hall while Draco followed Will to his doom.

* * *

_A/N: _Oricula Pulsum_ - roughly, "to hit ears," or so. I don't speak Latin, but if there existed an Ear-Boxing hex (and you bet there does), that would be the spell for it._


	22. Trust Falls

_"Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads."  
- Official team motto of the Falmouth Falcons_

* * *

**Chapter 22: Trust Falls**

Potter, George, and Bianca were gathered on the bearskin rug, and Will sat down as well and motioned for Draco to join him. There was plenty of seating in the living room, so Draco couldn't fathom why everyone was sitting on the floor. Avoiding eye contact, he positioned himself reluctantly on the ground. After a moment of silence, when he could no longer keep his curiosity at bay, he glanced at Potter. His expression was thoughtful and wary, but there was little contempt.

He was used to an existence where he and Potter hated each other, even if everything else had changed, and he almost wanted to say something mean just to get back that little piece of normality. He found Potter's curiosity highly annoying, for two reasons. First, it was presumptuous: just because Draco had accidentally revealed too much of himself already didn't mean that it was going to continue. Second, it was confusing: there was so much animosity between the two of them that Draco didn't think it was fair that Potter could push it aside after one little discussion, especially when Draco couldn't. He wanted to keep hating Harry Potter, and he certainly didn't want to be proven wrong about Potter's hero status being undeserved.

He didn't want to be the bad guy anymore, but the good guys seemed to be a rather exclusive group, and he didn't think he could pass the entrance exam. He just wanted to be a neutral guy, and he hoped that Potter and company would eventually acknowledge him as such. Hermione entered the room then and sat on the rug between Bianca and George. Will cleared his throat authoritatively.

"Let's start our first social exercise," he said. "We're going to go around the circle and say three things about ourselves: two of them will be true, and one will be false. The rest of the group has to guess which one is the lie. Don't make it too easy – try to use things that nobody here knows about you."

Well, that wouldn't be a challenge. Bianca and Will knew a few things about Draco, and Hermione knew a few more, but Potter and George didn't know anything at all. Also, everyone there except Draco was a terrible liar, so he was sure to win. Some people may have believed that this was one of those games that weren't for winning, but Draco knew those didn't really exist. Everything could be a contest if you made it one, including (and especially) day-to-day conversation.

"I'll go first," Will continued. "One: I have a scar just below my left knee from when I was five years old. Two: I started my first band at the age of sixteen, and we were called The Storm Troopers because I was that big of a nerd. Three: on a related note, before we could conceive our child, Bee made me sign a contract that I wouldn't try to name our baby Han Solo."

Bianca giggled at the last one, and Draco reckoned she wasn't allowed to answer. He had no idea what "storm troopers" or "Han Solo" were, so he kept quiet.

"I think it's the second one," Hermione guessed. "I think you were probably in your first band before you were sixteen."

"Good try, but no. Any other takers?" He looked around, and everyone was silent. "All right. It was the third one: the contract was verbal. Drake, your turn."

Draco scowled. He'd thought this was going to go around in the other direction, so he'd have more time to think. He kept his guard up as he spoke. "I support the Falmouth Falcons, my favourite author is Franz Kafka, and I have received overwhelmingly positive reviews on my customer service skills."

He glanced up at Hermione without really meaning to, and he could tell he'd already lost. She clearly knew the answer, but she didn't say it yet.

George snorted. "Either the Raven caters exclusively to blind masochists who don't speak English, or it's the third one," he said. "Can't you at least come up with something less obvious?"

"No," Bianca interjected. "That one's true - I've heard it myself." George started laughing, and she rolled her eyes. "I'm serious!"

"I know," he said, but he kept laughing, and Draco glared at him. Potter didn't seem to have anything to say, so he looked back at Hermione.

"It's the second one," she said smugly. "You've only read one book by Kafka, and you didn't like it."

"I liked it," he said. "He's just not my favourite author."

"Who is, then?"

"Curt von Nuggat." He wasn't sure if she'd read any von Nuggat, coming from a Muggle family, but he was fairly well-known in the magical world. Draco liked Muggle literature well enough, but he had to stand by the classics.

"Oh, good choice," she said, and he was oddly relieved. "I really enjoyed his interpretation of the Goblin Rebellion in _Gobbledegook_. It was very effective the way he used the wizarding stronghold at The Three Broomsticks as an allegory for the way people tend to ignore what's really important, when they begin to place their focus on - "

"Hermione," Potter interrupted. She took her eyes off Draco like she was embarrassed, which he didn't think was necessary. Maybe Potter didn't appreciate literature, but _Gobbledegook_ was one of Draco's all-time favourite novels, and he'd certainly rather hear Hermione discuss it than continue this stupid game. If it could end before he had to hear anything about Potter or George, then so much the better.

"Right, sorry. We can talk about this another time, Draco," she said. Potter was next, and he made a disapproving noise, presumably to make it clear that he hadn't missed the first-name use and didn't like it one little bit.

"Well, I was raised by Muggles for the first eleven years of my life, I also support the Falmouth Falcons, and my first broom was a Nimbus 2000."

"That's not fair, Harry," Will objected. "Those are all common-knowledge things from the _Prophet_ – I would know, I work there. It's the second one, and you only said that to get at Drake."

"It isn't my fault everyone knows all those personal things about me. I wish they didn't," Potter said, as though he were bitter about it instead of wallowing in the attention all the time, as Draco knew he was. "But you've guessed it, so let's just move on. George?"

"Well, _my _favourite Quidditch team is the Chudley Cannons," George said, with a pointed look at Draco. He didn't feel the need to respond, seeing as the Falcons had pulverised the Cannons less than a week ago, 200-10. "I own a joke shop in Diagon Alley, and I am an only child."

Everyone laughed at the last one, even Draco, though he tried not to make it too obvious.

"I don't think we need to say the answer out loud," Hermione said after a second. "Well, I'm fluent in Italian, I'm allergic to coconut, and I own over fifty pairs of shoes."

"Has to be the third one," George said, sounding very certain, but Draco shook his head at Hermione. Maybe no one else here was aware that Hermione Granger could secretly be a giggly girl sometimes, but he'd seen it, and he was onto her red herring. She raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.

"It's the first one," he said. He remembered hearing her order at the restaurant. "Your accent's certainly nothing to write home about."

"I think my accent's pretty good for a beginner," she said. "But no, I'm not fluent."

"You have fifty pairs of shoes?" George asked, in disbelief.

"When has Malfoy heard you speak Italian?" Potter asked, honing in on the more important issue.

"Oh, with Bianca's family," she said. Draco smirked knowingly.

In his head, he made his own list of little-known facts about Hermione: she hated eating in dining halls, she thought _Annie Hall_ was a happy movie, she used pear-scented shampoo, she didn't bother cooking when she was alone, she carried around a children's book just because it had belonged to her mother, she didn't know everything, and she ate the cookie dough last in the ice cream. Oh, and she was positively smitten with him. She probably didn't even think Draco knew that one, but he was beginning to notice a definite pattern in the way she looked at him, the way she blushed and played with her hair and forgot what she was talking about.

Unfortunately, they'd been looking at each other for much too long. He noticed and tried to shift his attention away from her casually, but it was too late, and he didn't miss George's confused expression. Potter was profoundly repulsed, and Draco thought his reaction was disproportionate at best. It wasn't as though Potter had walked in on them shagging in Draco's kinky sex dungeon, with leather bonds and black lace thigh-high stockings and all that wild hair spilling over his pillow, and… What? Oh, right. Draco didn't really have a sex dungeon, of course. Yet. He blinked rapidly to clear his mind, and once he remembered what he'd been originally thinking about, he concluded that Potter had no right to react that way to a simple shared glance.

He knew that Hermione and Potter saw each other as brother and sister, so he imagined how he'd feel if Pansy wanted to date Potter. It was almost impossible, but he tried anyway, and he didn't think he'd really care that much. That probably wasn't a very apt comparison, though, considering Pansy's relationship history.

In fact, in the long term he'd be more worried about Pansy landing herself in Azkaban for hexing Potter's balls off. Then again, Draco didn't think of Pansy as his _little_ sister: Potter seemed to have this weird protection issue about Hermione, like she was the baby of the family that he'd helped raise, and now he was having trouble recognising that she'd grown into an adult. This was despite the fact that she was older than Potter, both in actual years and in emotional maturity.

Hermione's laughter interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up and realised that he'd missed Bianca's turn completely.

"All right, everyone seems really tense. I think we should have a few drinks to loosen up. What do you say?" Will asked.

"Bloody brilliant idea," George said gratefully, and the rest of them nodded. Will stood and headed for the kitchen.

"I'm too tired to stay up late with drunk people," Bianca said. "I think I'll go to bed. Good night, everyone!"

Will returned and began to pour firewhiskey into four glasses. "I'm going to bed, too," he said. "I haven't got any more games up my sleeve. Maybe some time spent together is what you need at this point."

No one responded to that, but Hermione held out her hand when Will got to the last glass. "No thanks, I'm not a big fan of firewhiskey."

"Suit yourself. Good night, folks."

He waved at them all and followed his wife into their bedroom. Draco reached for his glass eagerly and took a sip. It tasted a bit friendlier than he remembered, but it had been a long time since he'd had firewhiskey. He wondered idly how a drink could taste 'friendly,' since that wasn't exactly a flavour, but that was the best word for it, and it was also oddly familiar. He took a few more sips, trying to place it, and then he knew.

It tasted like Pansy coming back. It tasted like Hermione bringing him a happy book. It tasted like his goddaughter asking to see him, like being adored by his house-elves, like Blaise shaking hands with Hermione, like Maggie leading him through the crowd, like Will giving him a nickname, and like his mother smiling in Monaco. He grinned down at the glass, and the liquid even _looked_ friendlier than usual - he could almost see it smiling back at him.

He caught Potter's eye, and he was surprised to note that Potter was looking quite friendly as well. He realised how much he really wanted Potter to accept him, just like he had back in first year. It was difficult for Draco to admit this, even to himself, but he had always been insanely jealous of this bloke. Now that they were both adults, he could see that Potter didn't really have anything he didn't, and he'd had a pretty hard life – almost as hard as Draco's. He remembered Potter's admission earlier that he wished people didn't know so much about his personal life, and he could relate. Maybe they could understand each other if they tried a little harder.

"Hey, I forgot how much I liked firewhiskey," Potter said good-naturedly.

"Me, too," Draco agreed. "I haven't had it in a while. I've been drinking Muggle drinks."

"You like the Muggle drinks?" Potter asked. Draco didn't mind telling him; why should he bother trying to avoid an innocent question?

"Yes, they're quite good. I like their books, too - Hermione's been bringing them to me. And their clothes, and their ice cream. You know, Muggles really aren't half-bad," he admitted, with a shrug. Potter beamed at him, and it made him feel warm to make somebody happy like that, just by saying something honest.

"They've got so many interesting contraptions," George commented. "My dad was obsessed with them when I was growing up, so we've always had them around the house." George frowned then and Draco could feel his apprehension coming off in waves.

"What's the matter?" he asked, hoping it wasn't something he'd said.

"Nothing, never mind."

"No, I can tell you're worried about something," Potter added. "We're all friends here. You can tell us."

Some part of Draco's brain (way in the back) started flashing when Potter said they were friends, but he ignored it. He could feel Potter's happiness, and it made him happy, too, while George's concern made him worried. He felt so connected to them, and they'd known each other for so long. Of course they were friends.

"I don't know," George said. "I feel weird mentioning my dad in front of Malfoy because of that rotten deal with his father, and plus our whole family history. Everyone was feeling so good that I didn't want to upset it."

That was so thoughtful of George. Draco couldn't believe how selfless he was being, and suddenly he felt terrible for ever contributing to the feud. "How many generations have our families been fighting, anyway? Do you know how it got started?"

"No. It just became a cycle after a while, and everyone kept making it worse. We did our part, and you did yours, and sometimes I feel like we've all been as bad as each other."

"The Malfoys have definitely done the most damage," Draco admitted. He could tell that George was still anxious, so he wanted to say something to make it better. "I was thinking about the Weasleys recently, and I realised something. When you guys rejected all that old pure-blood rot, I think you were right. I think our family should have done what you did a hundred years ago. If we'd all done that, none of us would have had to fight each other."

That same flashing piece in the back of his head was embarrassed that he'd said that out loud, and it was producing some kind of warning siren to boot, but Draco was determined to block it out. He felt good, because he knew that George and Potter felt good, and why wouldn't he want to keep feeling this way?

"Thanks for saying that, Malfoy. It really means a lot to me," George said. "You know, you're the head of the Malfoy family now, and I'm sure my dad wouldn't mind my taking over for a few minutes. What do you say we call a permanent truce on the Weasley/Malfoy feud?"

George stretched out his hand, and warmth spread through Draco's chest again. That was a wonderful idea. "If you can forgive the things my father and I did over the years," he said, just to make sure.

"Your father can speak for himself if he wants to be forgiven," George said. "But I'm talking to you now, and we're starting fresh."

Draco smiled and accepted the offer, causing a puff of black smoke to rise from their joined hands. He felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Some wizarding families were involved in unofficial feuds, such as the Bulstrodes and the Abbotts, but the Malfoys were not interested in amateur hour.

A real wizarding feud could only be started by the two heads of the households, and it began with a mutual curse. The two men acted as though they were about to duel, but instead they both cast the same spell: a simple stinging hex. When the two hexes met in the middle, the magic of the two men would fight for dominance, and in the long run it essentially translated into a minor bad luck curse that applied to all members of both families. The more powerful wizard would bring worse luck to his opponent's ancestors, and his father had always told him that this was why the Weasleys were so poor. It was remarkably simple magic because it drew completely from the emotions of the casters, growing over time with their mutual spite.

Draco had always thought it was more than a little impractical to agree to be cursed in exchange for cursing somebody's grandchildren, but he hadn't realised he could do anything about it until now. Now that he had, everyone in both families would be able to feel the curse being lifted, and he wondered what his father was thinking in Azkaban. It would also surprise his mother back at the manor, but he was certain she'd understand with time.

"I propose a toast," Potter said cheerfully. "To the welcome and long-awaited demise of the Weasley/Malfoy feud!"

He raised his glass, and George and Draco raised theirs to meet him. Suddenly, it was as though all three of them remembered that Hermione was still there. They lowered their glasses and looked at her as one. She was frozen to the spot. Her mouth was hanging open, and she wasn't moving a muscle except her eyes, which were darting anxiously around the circle. Draco tried to reach out for what she was feeling, but he couldn't access it directly the way he could with Potter and George.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Er, can I see your glass for a minute?"

"If you want some firewhiskey, I can pour you some," Potter offered generously.

"No, no, I just need to see your glass. Please," she said, very tense. Draco wondered if she was angry about something. Why didn't she want to talk about her feelings with them? Couldn't she see that they all cared about her very deeply, especially Draco? He handed her his glass and brushed his fingers across hers as he did so, and he felt another rush of warmth creep up his arm. He watched her as she lifted the glass slowly and swirled it beneath her nose, inhaling cautiously.

She looked back up at him, and for a second the walls came down, and he felt everything. He could feel her affection for him, and he could even feel her desire. It made him want to crawl across the carpet and kiss her right then; however, that would be disrespectful to Potter and George, which Draco certainly didn't want. He could also sense a long-standing and consistent worry within Hermione, and he realised that she fretted about him nearly all the time.

He wondered if there was something he could do to assure her that he was doing just fine these days. He was also absolutely certain that he was falling in love with her, and he wondered if perhaps they were soul mates (_soul mates don't even exist!_ cried the Negative Nancy portion of his brain, but Draco barely heard it). Then the block returned, and she broke eye contact and stared down at the glass in horror.

"Oh, dear. All right, you three stay here. I have to go talk to Will. I just remembered something that I forgot to, erm. Just stay here."

"But Hermione," George said, "Will and Bianca are asleep. I know they won't mind being woken up if it's really important, but Bianca's pregnant, and she needs her rest."

"Trust me, it is _really_ important," she said, standing quickly.

"Are you sure you're okay, Hermione?" Potter asked. "Why don't you sit back down and tell us what's bothering you?"

"I really need to talk to Will, Harry, but thanks." She turned and left in a hurry, shooting nervous glances back at the three of them every few steps, like she thought they might explode if she looked away.

Draco watched her leave, hoping she was all right. He wanted to know what was so important that she had to wake Will, but that she wouldn't tell two of her best friends and her boyfriend; he almost considered eavesdropping, but that would have been immoral (_what?)_. He looked back at George and Potter and saw that they shared his concern.

"I'm worried about Hermione," he confessed. "Do you think she's upset with me?"

"No. If she's upset with anyone, it's me," Harry said sadly. "Things got really awkward after she and Ron broke up for good in the fall, and they both sort of wanted me to pick sides, and it seemed like the only thing I could do was give each of them some space. It was completely wrong of me – I should have been there for both of them. Ginny handled it so much better than I did. You know, she's such an incredible person."

"You're spot on about my sister, but you shouldn't blame yourself for the rest of that," George said. "Ickle Ronnie's doing loads better these days. He feels ruddy awful for being such a prat to Hermione for so long, and he wants to apologize, but he's afraid to take the leap. You should talk to him about it. Sometimes people just need someone to talk to," he observed sagely, and Draco nodded in agreement.

"You're absolutely right, George," Potter said. "It's not too late. I'm sure Hermione would be happy to see him again – I can tell they miss each other."

Draco frowned at the idea. He could understand Ron's feelings a bit: it would hurt to be left by Hermione, and he was pretty sure he'd be a way worse prick than Ron if it were happening to him. On the other hand, he couldn't help but feel an intense wave of jealousy at Potter's phrasing on that last part. The two conflicting emotions were both so strong that Draco wasn't sure what to do, so he looked down at his hands in confusion.

"What's wrong, Malfoy?" Potter asked.

"It's complicated," he said. Something else was bothering him, too. "Why don't you want me to spend time with Hermione?"

Potter took some time to consider it, and Draco could sense that he was struggling with the idea.

"You know, I'm not sure. I just want the best for her, and she really seemed happy when she was talking about books to you earlier. Do you know what she's talking about when she says stuff like that?" It was a strange question, since Hermione's literary analysis was generally straightforward and concise, but he nodded. "See, I don't. None of us do, really. She told me she even got you to read chemistry text books."

"Those are interesting," he said. "Did you know that table salt is made up of sodium and chlorine? Those two elements are both poisonous on their own, but together they can combine to make something not only safe to eat but also incredibly useful."

"It's good that you're so into that stuff, Malfoy, but nobody else is," George said. "Except Hermione, of course. Hang on, are you two dating or something?"

George and Potter both looked at him searchingly, and he knew he couldn't hide the truth from them. He could feel that they were both apprehensive about the idea, especially George, but he'd been getting such good vibes from that direction ever since they'd ended the feud that he knew George couldn't be too cross with him. "Like I said, you'll have to ask her. I think she wants to talk to you about it first."

"It's a very strange idea, I've got to say," George admitted. "I definitely never would have expected it in a million years. But, you know, the even weirder thing is that it sort of makes sense, now that I think about it. I never thought I'd be saying this about anything, but I can tell that you care about her."

"So, you'd be okay with it?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's not my place to try and stop Hermione from doing something she wants to do."

"That's true," Potter said. "This is her decision, and she hates it when we try too hard to protect her. I know she's capable of taking care of herself. Ron won't like this at all, though."

Draco could feel a shadow come over Potter's mood, and he gave him a sympathetic look. After all, he knew how it felt to see a friend's pain and not be able to stop it. He wondered if he should go back and provide Pansy with some more encouragement: she hid it well, but he could tell she was feeling lonely and abandoned.

"It's not Ron's place, either," George pointed out, "although I can understand why he'd be upset about it. He's very sensitive. I wonder how he feels about the feud ending - both our families would've felt the change, yeah?"

Draco nodded, and he was about to respond when Hermione came back into the room with Will in tow. Draco was dismayed to see that she wasn't any less anxious. Will seemed embarrassed, but Draco couldn't tell for sure with him either. It was strange how he suddenly felt so close to Potter and George, when he was much better friends with Will and Hermione.

"Will has something to tell you," she said. She turned toward Will expectantly, and he cracked under the pressure.

"First, I would like to say that I have nothing but your best interests at heart, and I still don't think I did anything wrong," he said. "Please keep that in mind when I tell you that I, er, spiked your firewhiskey with Pathos Potion."

"Pathos Potion?" George asked.

"Liquid empathy," Draco explained, and he couldn't believe he hadn't figured it out sooner - no more games, indeed. This potion made it seem like a person had always felt everything so strongly, though, so it was hard to recognise its effects. "That makes a lot of sense."

"You should have told us, Will," Potter said. "I can see why you did it, though. You just want us to learn to get along with each other."

"Yes, exactly!" Will said.

"I don't think he'll feel that way in the morning," Hermione pointed out. "If it's even worn off by then. How much did you put in?"

"Not that much. It should be completely gone within a few hours."

"At which time we'll experience a hangover of intense loneliness," Draco pointed out, and Hermione nodded. He understood Will's reasoning, and he could appreciate that it was a respectably cunning and sneaky thing to do; however, he'd studied the Pathos Potion, and it was pretty volatile. Will had taken a risk by giving it to them – the potion didn't always make people feel friendly, since its main effect was to intensify preexisting emotions. If he and Potter had really and deeply still hated each other, they would probably have dueled to the death. Of course, Draco couldn't really remember what it had been like to hate those two. They were just so friendly and understanding.

"I think maybe you three should go to bed until the potion wears off," Hermione advised. "There's no telling how you'll feel about the things you've said."

"We're having a really great conversation, though," Potter said. "Malfoy and I never got a chance to get to know each other, and he's not a bad guy at all." Draco looked at Potter, and they shared a contented smile before Potter looked back at Hermione. "I know you're afraid to talk to us about this, and I don't want you to think Malfoy told your secret, but we guessed. Anyway, if you want to see him, I don't want you to stop because you don't think we'll like it. We all really love you, Hermione, and you'll always be like a sister to me, no matter what. I want to see you do whatever makes you happy."

Hermione sighed and looked around at them, and Draco wished she'd taken the potion so he could tell what she was feeling. "That's very sweet, Harry, and I feel the same way about you. But I really think we should wait to talk about this until you're in your right mind."

"The potion doesn't give you false emotions, Jane," Will said.

"I am still very disappointed in you," she informed him sharply, "and I think you should go back to bed before I give you a piece of my mind."

"If you say so." He held up his hands and shrugged. "Good night, everybody."

He left the room again, and Hermione sat between Potter and Draco on the rug and resumed her anxious eye-darting.

"You might as well drink some of this," Draco said, holding up his glass. "You like all of us, so it'll make you feel really happy to be here."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" George asked. "I'm trying to remember what it was like to think Malfoy was a slimy git, but I can't, and it feels so liberating. Sorry for calling you that, by the way."

"I've called your family worse," Draco admitted. "I'm sorry, too."

"What are we worried about now, anyway?" George said, waving off the apology. "The feud's over. This is day one of the Weasley/Malfoy friendship."

Draco heard a sniffling sound from his other side, and he looked to find Hermione trying to keep herself from crying. Even though he couldn't feel her sadness, it was still a punch to the gut to see her so upset. He glanced at Potter, and he could sense that he felt the same way, and that made it twice as bad.

"Hermione, why are you crying?" Potter asked, reaching out to take her hand.

"I'm not crying," she said, even though clearly she was.

"We can't access your feelings. Please tell us why you're crying before we explode from unknown grief," Draco said, trying to control his tone. "You know about Pathos Potions. Imagine how horrible this is for us."

"Oh, fine," she said quietly. "I should probably get out of here, too, but I don't want to leave you three alone to tell each other your deepest secrets all night. It's just so painful to see you all acting like friends, because I know it's not real. I know it won't last."

"I guess it's not completely real, but it's not really fake, either," Potter said.

"But what's going to happen tomorrow morning?"

"We'll probably regret saying so much, but we won't be able to tell ourselves we hate each other anymore," Potter pointed out.

"Maybe after a while, you won't," Hermione conceded. "But I don't know if this will speed up the process or set everything back, in the long run."

"It's too late to do anything about it, so I guess we'll find out," George said cheerfully.

"I still really think you three should go to bed."

"Would it make you happy if we did that?" Potter asked.

"Yes, it would, especially if you promise you won't tell each other any more personal information."

"Then that's what we'll do," Potter said. He stood, and so did George, but Draco remained seated.

"Would you two mind going on ahead?" he asked. "I want to talk to Hermione for a minute."

"All right. Good night, Malfoy," George said, with a reassuring grin. "Whatever happens in the morning, I feel good about you right now. I'm glad the feud's over."

"Me, too."

"I feel good, too," Potter added. "Good night."

They both left the room, and Hermione gave him a pained look. He was dimly aware that it was only because of the potion that he was so in touch with his feelings, but it made him want to say some things he needed to say, and he wasn't going to miss the opportunity.

"I want to apologise for calling you names in school, and for everything else I've ever done to you, especially the blood stuff," he said, just like that. It was so easy. "I don't believe in it anymore, and I never should have."

"I know you don't, and that was a long time ago. To tell you the truth, I never heard the word Mudblood until you said it, so it didn't mean that much to me when we were kids. I always thought it sounded rather silly, to be honest, and I had trouble taking you seriously."

"That's good. You shouldn't have – ever." And no one else should've, either. If everyone had ignored everything Draco said for the first twenty years of his life, they'd all have been better off. "Until now, I guess."

"I do, because you've given me good reason to." She smiled genuinely, and it was so wonderful to see that he wished the potion would never wear off. She stood and brushed some invisible dirt off her shirt, and he pulled himself off the floor.

"Good night," he said, and he kissed her before she could turn away. It was probably a good thing she hadn't taken the potion, because then kissing her would have been so incredible that every kiss of his life after that would seem lackluster and emotionless. Even when it was just him, it was amazing. Her hair was remarkably soft in his hands, and her skin was so smooth that it almost hurt to touch it. She pulled away quickly, and the loss was profound.

"Good night. I hope tomorrow won't be as bad as I think it will."

He nodded, since he didn't trust himself to speak. All he could think was _I love you_, and he didn't want to say that, although he reckoned she could probably see it written all over his face. He wondered if he would still be in love with her after the potion wore off, but that wouldn't matter until the morning. He went to his room, feeling happier than he ever had in his whole life, and Potter was already in bed.

"I apologised to Hermione," he said.

"That's great news, Malfoy. She doesn't want us to talk to each other anymore until the potion wears off, though."

"I know. I just wanted you to know that."

"I'm glad you told me."

Draco could feel Potter's happiness floating across the space between the beds as he lay down, and he smiled up at the ceiling for a long time before falling asleep.

* * *

Draco awoke and found that he was completely alone in the world.

He was a solitary figure, surrounded by an army of statues, and all of them were doomed to walk the barren streets of a dying planet imprisoned in their own minds, incomprehensible to all others. It was Hell.

He opened his eyes, and Potter was sitting on the edge of his bed across the room - Potter, whose soul was buried under a thousand layers of lies and pretexts and confusion and irrational emotional bullshit. He sat up as well, and they stayed like that for what felt like an extremely long time in silence, before Potter had to start talking.

"You were right about the potion's aftereffects," he said, in a voice like knocking bones together.

"What, you didn't believe me? I'm good at potions, unlike some people." He wasn't sure how else to react except by being annoyed.

Potter sighed, looking weary. "Is that really necessary at this point? What would Hermione think if she heard you talking to me like that, after what she said last night?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter. Every living creature dies alone."

Potter put his head in his hands. Draco thought he heard him muttering "it's true, it's true" into his lap, but he couldn't be sure. It didn't make a difference, either way. He'd experienced the all-encompassing euphoria of being at peace with the universe, of being with people that he could fully understand, who understood him as well, and now it was gone. He would never have that kind of connection again. There was no reason even to try.

There was a knock on the door, and it opened shortly to reveal Hermione, smiling weakly and carrying a tea tray.

"Hi," she said. "I brought you some tea. I put some Pepper-Up in it, which might help."

Draco still didn't want to speak, so he just stared at her, thinking about how she was the one he wanted to understand. She walked into the room and handed a cup of tea to him and Potter, and then she stood still and glanced back and forth between them.

"It'll pass. Just remember that it's from the potion," she told them.

"It's not," Draco said. "Maybe that's why I'm realising it, but that doesn't mean it isn't true."

"No, that applies to what you felt last night. This loneliness is false." She pressed her hand into his shoulder, and an aching pain grew from the pit of his stomach. "Come on, it's no good sitting in here. Why don't you two come into the kitchen for breakfast?"

"It doesn't matter either way," Potter said, and Draco couldn't help but agree. In solitary confinement, this bedroom, the kitchen, or the World Cup stadium, he would always be alone. She sighed helplessly and beckoned, and they followed her through the hallway and the living room to the table, where Will and Bianca were making bowls of cereal. George was already seated, and they joined him. Will turned around and placed a bowl in front of Draco, who responded with his coldest glare.

"I don't know why you're all so upset with me," Will said. "If someone had done this when you lot were sixteen, you may have literally killed each other, but look what happened now that you're all grown up. You fed off each other's good will and desire for reconciliation. For some reason, you were afraid to express those feelings on your own, and all I did was help you be brave. You told each other the truth, and you ended a century-old feud. At the very least, I expect the Weasleys and the Malfoys will both enjoy some improved luck from now on."

Draco supposed that was true. The Weasley name had become somewhat of a curse word in the Malfoy home, used whenever some minor misfortune struck the family – Draco remembered his father habitually stubbing his toe on the same end table and yelling, 'those blasted Weasleys!'

On the other hand, he already had the supreme misfortune of being alive and human, so it didn't make much of a difference.

"You should be proud of yourselves," Will continued. "Aren't you proud of them, Jane?"

"Well, yes, but -"

"No _but_s. The ends justify the means, as I always say. Why can't we all just pretend we're still under the potion and enjoy a friendly breakfast? Maybe I even put some more of it in your cereal, who knows?" Draco prodded his corn flakes suspiciously with his spoon. "None of the emotions that you three felt last night were false. Pathos Potion can't change your mind. It just strengthens the feelings you already have, creates a temporary empathic connection between the drinkers, and helps you express yourself. Think about it – can you compel someone to end an official feud under the Imperius Curse?"

Draco and George both shook their heads in the negative.

"And why not?" Will asked. Draco glanced at George, then back to Will, but he didn't feel like answering.

"People under the Imperius don't have genuine emotions, and you have to really feel it for that kind of magic to work," George said. He sounded like he was handling the potion hangover better than Draco, which made him jealous. "Harry and I could glove-slap each other and throw stinging hexes back and forth all day long, for instance, and it would never start a Weasley/Potter feud, although that's a pretty funny concept. I'd say we should try it for the novelty, only I'm not sure what it would do about Ginny, and their kids could end up with really rotten luck."

"Yes, exactly," Will said. "If you're so put out that this thing's finally over, why don't you try to start a new one? I'm sure you'll find that you can't, because you just simply do not hate each other anymore," he observed. Draco scowled. "And when I say that you'll have better luck now, I do mean quite a bit of it, especially the two of you. My granddad on my mum's side ended a thirty-year feud at St. Mungo's the day I was born, and it generated so much back-karma that I've been lucky my whole life. That's why I take so many wild risks – it all just keeps working out. If you've ever wanted to play the lottery, do it today."

"Why are you even doing this?" Draco asked. He didn't know what the lottery was, but he was in no mood for games. "Why do you constantly feel the need to intrude on other people's lives?"

"I have two hobbies: music and meddling," Will replied, "and I am very good at both of them."

It was still really annoying, but Draco was a person who could appreciate talent in many forms, whether he liked the results or not – from spying on people (Blaise) to making them cry (Pansy). As such, he had to admit that Will could probably win several awards for his meddling if he chose to enter some sort of Other-People's-Business Olympics. He went back to prodding his cornflakes, but he was feeling sick to his stomach, and even the tea hadn't helped it.

"I'm going home," he said. "This was the worst retreat ever." Draco had been on Death Eater retreats, although the Dark Lord didn't specifically call them that, so this was a pretty harsh allegation.

"It really was," Potter agreed.

"Complete train-wreck," George added.

"You're all wrong," Will said. "And in a few days, I'm sure you will come to agree with me."

Hermione was shaking her head and staring into her own untouched cereal, and Bianca was lingering awkwardly near the sink. Draco realised that she had most certainly helped her husband execute this plan, especially considering her convenient departure just before the potion was administered. Like all other petty human disputes, however, it didn't matter. They'd all be dead eventually anyway, and not a moment too soon.

"Can you Apparate from here?" he asked, and Bianca nodded.

He gathered his things from the bedroom and Apparated onto the grounds of the manor. When he made it inside the building, his mother was waiting for him again.

"Draco, where were you?" she asked. She sounded confused and curious, but not angry this time.

"I was in a cabin in the woods," he said. He wasn't in the mood to elaborate.

"With Arthur Weasley?" she asked incredulously.

"No, George."

"Hm. I was immensely surprised when you woke me up in the middle of the night with the end of the feud; however, I think this will serve us well. It was very strange, though – I tried to owl you earlier this morning, and Ocypete couldn't find you. She got lost, the poor dear, and came back all flustered just a moment ago." She frowned, evidently sympathetic to the plight of her demon owl.

Draco was gratified despite his foul mood, because his personal good luck must have already begun: Ocypete got_ lost_, for the first time in his life. Maybe the ends justified the means, after all.

"I was thinking I'd try and owl Dromeda," she continued quietly.

"Why?" He'd hoped she would eventually, but he didn't think it would be so soon. Too bad he didn't care anymore, either way.

"You did something your father would not, and now it's my turn."


	23. Fame Monster

**Chapter 23: Fame Monster**

Draco sent Will a strongly-worded owl on Sunday to call off rehearsal, even though they were supposed to be starting the twice-weekly schedule, and then he'd spent the rest of the day moping around the manor and avoiding his mother.

When he woke up on Monday morning, the potion hangover had finally worn off the rest of the way. He was trying to forget about all the things he'd said to George and Potter, but the rest of the world wasn't, as evidenced by the biggest feature in the _Prophe_t's society section that morning: _103-year Malfoy/Weasley feud ended by Draco Malfoy and George Weasley._

He wanted to blame Will, but he wasn't involved with that section, and he hadn't written the article. There were millions of Weasleys running around the planet - so many that wizarding photographs from space would probably show a bright-orange Britain - and Draco reckoned some random cousins had owled the papers, looking for their fifteen minutes of fame. There were no quotes in the article from anyone who was anyone, either: just "sources within the family," and war heroes would have been listed by name.

He was already scowling so deeply that his face was probably going to get stuck that way, and he hadn't even read any of the owls that had come in. A few were from distant family members, but a shocking number were from strangers. He tasked Gully with going over them and summarising the contents, and the majority turned out to be pleasant and complimentary. Draco didn't go around reading news that didn't apply to him and owling strangers about their personal lives, so he didn't understand why other people thought that was appropriate, but at least they weren't sending cursed Howlers.

Another owl arrived from his father just as he was about to leave for work, forwarded through the official outgoing postage system of Azkaban. It didn't say anything: there was just one large black dot in the centre of the parchment.

This would normally mean that Draco was disowned, but Lucius didn't have that power anymore. Draco thought back as far as he could remember, and he was fairly certain that this was the first owl he'd ever received directly from his father. A black dot. That wasn't sending the best. He crumpled it up, but then another thought occurred to him: Lucius couldn't disown people anymore, but Draco could, as the new head of the Malfoy family. Impulsively, he smoothed out the parchment and sent it straight back to Azkaban.

He walked through the living room toward the Floo, but his mother got his attention from the couch, where she was smiling at a long scroll of parchment.

"Dromeda replied to my letter," she said. She looked so happy she might cry, which made him feel awkward.

"What did she say?" he asked, trying to push aside the gushy feelings that kept creeping up on him lately. By his very nature, Draco was not a nice man, but somehow a bunch of people had recently gotten confused. He'd considered doing something really nasty just to prove them all wrong, but then he'd lose his new friends and his potential girlfriend and be right back where he started. It was almost worth it, but not quite.

She handed him the parchment, and he lost his battle with the gross feelings. Andromeda had updated Narcissa on her whole life since they'd last spoken, but her tone suggested that his mother had simply been on a long vacation. There was no resentment to be found anywhere, and his mother must have even managed to apologise, because Andromeda made it clear that she was forgiven.

She talked about caring for her young grandson and expressed an eagerness to meet Draco. Apparently, his mother had told her a lot about his life: she was excited about Draco working for Olympia's sister and dating Hermione, whom she remembered from the Order, and she congratulated them on ending the Weasley/Malfoy feud. Andromeda had already won the Nicest Aunt title just by not being Bella, but clearly she planned to hang onto it. He handed back the letter, and his mother rolled it up in her lap.

"This is good news," she said. "When I see her again, we should take another photo."

"Maybe you could start a new album," he said. Because Bella was in the other one. "By the way, I've disowned father."

"Have you? Why?" She didn't seem upset about the news, but there was a bit of surprise.

"He tried to disown me, so I disowned him right back," he said. Simple as that, end of story.

"I suppose that's fair," she concluded, after a moment's thought. He nodded and continued to the Floo.

In Draco's opinion, one of the few things the Pureblood aristocracy had right was their definition of "fair": eye for an eye, and don't expect anybody to care about your bleeding sockets when you gouged first. If he told that to Hermione, she'd probably say something about making the whole world blind, so he wasn't going to tell her. They didn't have to agree about everything.

On his way to work, he passed some of those confused people who were trying to like him now, and he wondered if they were the same busybodies who were sending him owls. He was trying to keep his eyes down, as usual, but he kept feeling their gaze anyway. They weren't glaring, but they weren't smiling, and he didn't know them. They were looking at him the way people looked at second-tier War heroes, he realised - not the awe reserved for the likes of The Golden Trio, but a similar mix of curiosity and admiration.

It was exactly what he'd thought he wanted, but it felt weird in real life. Once he arrived at the Raven, he had other things to think about. He hadn't seen Bianca since the firewhiskey incident, and he didn't know how it was going to go; he didn't want to talk about it, for one thing, and he was certain that she did. He took his place beside her behind the counter and waited for the inevitable.

"Draco, I'm so sorry about that potion," she said, cutting straight to the chase for once. Her eyes were pleading, and he could tell she meant it. "I never should've let Will do it, but we could tell you guys wanted to work things out, and it was so frustrating watching you act like you didn't care. We really wanted to help you."

He considered his response. He wasn't mad at Bianca, and he wasn't _that_ mad at Will. It was just a deeply strange situation, and he didn't know how to feel about any of it now that there wasn't a potion around to help him categorise his emotions. "I don't want to talk about it," he said at last, settling for honesty. "It's fine. Just forget it."

He could tell she didn't believe him but also knew better than to argue - he had his stony face on and everything. "All right," she said. "Have a good shift." She gave him a weak smile, and he shrugged.

After she left, he couldn't think of anything to do but stare at the counter. He noticed a small crack and ran his finger along it to the end. It was distracting in a tactile way, and a temporary reprieve from thinking was much appreciated. As long as he kept himself busy, he'd be fine, and maybe someday he'd be ready to talk to people and do more things that actually mattered. He pulled out a few glasses that were already clean and washed them anyway, swirling his wand around the glass until it shined. He hadn't been paying attention to anything but the light refraction - which he knew about now, thanks to Muggle science - so he hadn't noticed his attacker until it was too late.

"Malfoy," said a female voice from the other side of the counter.

Draco took his time acknowledging her, since there weren't a whole lot of unfamiliar women who would address him that way, and he could only come up with one solid guess. He set the glass back down but kept his wand ready, even though it wasn't like he could use it. When he managed to drag his eyes off the counter, he scored himself a point because he'd been right: Ginny Potter. And he was supposed to be having _good_ luck these days.

He didn't say anything, since he didn't want to talk to her and wasn't sure what to call her. He couldn't very well call both her and her husband 'Potter,' but they definitely weren't on a first-name basis.

"George and Harry told me what happened," she said. She had a strange look on her face, like she was trying to be polite while still scowling at the same time. 'Weasley-Potter,' maybe? No, that sounded so disgusting in Draco's head that he couldn't imagine saying it out loud.

"Or you could have read the paper," he said. He settled on just a regular scowl for himself.

He was trying to stare her down, but she wasn't intimidated. After a moment, she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. He wondered if she was counting to ten, and if it worked any better for her than it did for him. "I got more details this way," she said. Her voice was tighter now. "It sounds like you three had quite a night."

"You could say that." He kept his game-face on, wondering where exactly she was planning to go with this. He didn't want to be too big of a jerk, but he was trying to pretend it hadn't happened, and he especially didn't want to talk about it to any Potter or Weasley or combination thereof.

"I heard about you from Hermione before that, of course." He made a noncommittal noise, and she kept talking. "You know, everyone in our family's pleased the feud's over. What about you?"

She raised her eyebrows, and she didn't actually look pleased just then. He knew it was a test, as though she had any right to come into his place of employment and test him. On the other hand, he also reckoned she'd mentioned Hermione for a reason - this little conversation would be making its way along the Gryffindor communication channels in short order, so he would do well not to fuck it up.

"I suppose it's preferable this way," he said. She nodded, seemingly satisfied, but she didn't leave. Maybe she thought it was funny to see him in the service industry or something, and she could laugh it up if she wanted to. She didn't know how much Draco's crappy plebeian job had done for her: without it, there'd still be a feud and his dad would be walking free. "Did you want a drink or what?" he asked, nearing the end of his patience.

"No, I'm just here because curiosity got the better of me," she said, with a derisive half-smile. "I had to see the new Draco Malfoy for myself."

He could tell from the way she said it that she wasn't convinced, which was fine. He was still the same old Draco Malfoy, as far as he was concerned, no matter which spin the _Daily Prophet_ was putting on him that week. He managed to keep himself from scowling any deeper. "Well, now you have."

"I don't know about that," she said. It sounded like a challenge. "You don't seem too different to me."

Couldn't a man put in an honest day's work without jumping through hoops for former Weasleys all day? He was beginning to fear that these kind of people would be taking over his life soon, what with dating Hermione and ending the feud. In a few weeks, they could take a photo of Draco from space, and he'd be orange.

"What, did you think I got a personality transplant?" he asked. "Did you think you were going to come here and make fun of me while I'm trying to work, and I would hand you a bouquet of fresh-picked daisies and write poetry about friendship?"

His nefarious plans of being sort of a prick were thwarted when she laughed genuinely. Then she tilted her head and studied him. "No, I'd never want to see that. Maybe you are different," she said.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, bristling. "You thought the opposite two seconds ago."

"I know you were trying to make fun of me, but you didn't think to say anything about blood, money, or my family. That's why I laughed instead of hexed you. You've gone soft, Malfoy," she gloated, and he almost disowned himself right then and there.

"I haven't," he said. He wondered if his Mean Guy voice was even still working properly. "You don't know me."

"We'll see," she said. "See you 'round." She gave him a mocking wave and breezed out of the shop.

Weasleys were really just the worst people, and Draco couldn't even blame them for spilling his tea anymore. Now that the feud was over, he'd have to accept that any clumsiness was entirely his own stupid fault, _and_ he had to act like he didn't hate them.

Even worse, he might not truly hate them at all. It had been proven without his consent: if Draco hated the Weasleys as a Malfoy should, he would have killed George on Saturday. He couldn't even trust his own emotions anymore, to the limited extent that he'd ever been able to.

His father would have killed George under the Pathos potion, he thought, just for being a Weasley. Just to honour a feud, because somehow his grandfather Abraxas must've been better at brainwashing children than Lucius ever was. He'd done his best, but it hadn't stuck, and Draco couldn't help but wonder why. It was a good thing, he guessed, but he didn't know where the credit was due: did Lucius accidentally turn out to be a good father, by trying to be a bad father and failing?

That was probably it. But he couldn't resist imagining, just for a moment, that he was actually a more honourable person than the Malfoy men before him. He knew there were "morality" genes floating around on the Black side of the family, scattered and often dormant, and it was starting to look like one of them was his.

He wished he'd brought a book with him, and in his boredom he decided to make a mental to-do list for after work. He resisted putting "Nothing, ever again" at the top – part of the reason he was in this sorry position was his passive attitude. He'd been going with the flow for months now, letting everything happen around him and lifting a hand only when he was absolutely forced. Maybe he couldn't stop anything, but at least he could control it a little better by actually, you know, doing something.

At first, all he could come up with were things he didn't want to do. He didn't want to read his mail, he didn't want to have any more stressful heart-to-heart conversations, and he didn't want to be cooped up in the manor anymore. He decided that the way forward, then, was to take the things he didn't want and do the opposite. He wasn't sure what the antithesis of a heart-felt conversation was except a hateful screaming match, which wasn't much better, and he was already not reading his mail. That left his house, and so he decided he'd reinvestigate the possibility of moving out. Now that his mother was back in contact with Andromeda, she was about to be less lonely, so maybe he could bring it up with her again while she was still in such a good mood.

He'd also been meaning to finish the last of Hermione's chemistry books, since he was beginning to get somewhere with it. He'd pulled out his favourite Potions texts to cross-reference the ingredients with certain chemicals, and he'd taken a few pages of notes that might be helpful to her.

With his plans in place, he finished his shift with a new resolve…

...which blew away in the breeze the second he walked outside. As the lazy summer evening stumbled along, he'd slowed down to keep pace with it, and the sun was setting before he knew it. His mother had been out all evening anyway, without leaving a note, and he wasn't sure where she'd gone. Probably shopping, he guessed, or for dinner with Mrs. Parkinson or something. She hadn't done those things in a while, but she'd want to get back to her old schedule now that she was through grieving his father.

At least he had the goal of being proactive, and it's no crime to waste time when it's warm outside. That's just human.

* * *

As it turned out, other people who weren't Draco hadn't been spending their time in slow motion. They'd taken control of their destinies and accomplished their goals, and he would have been happy for them if it didn't involve him.

Unfortunately, their goal had turned out to be gossiping about Draco's family even more than usual. He couldn't believe his eyes when he saw the _Prophet _two days later; it had to be some kind of record. His family hadn't gotten so much good press in such quick succession since that time Death Eaters took over the newspapers. There was a special feature, on a tip from an anonymous Azkaban guard, with an image of Lucius's black dot – they screened all the prisoners' mail before it entered the fortress, and someone must have made a copy.

_Lucius Malfoy Disowned By Own Son,_ read the headline. Perhaps tomorrow, it would read: _Draco Malfoy Eats Cereal While Reading Article about Self, _because suddenly everyone cared so much about the minutia of the Malfoys' daily existence.

Disowning his father might not exactly qualify as quotidian, but it also didn't qualify as anybody else's business. He forced himself to read the article, so at least he'd know what they were saying about him, but it wasn't what he'd come to expect. In fact, he did a double-take at the byline after reading it – Romilda Vane, a staff writer who hated the Malfoys as much as she loved writing about them. He'd never forget that name. It had been at the top of nearly all the bad press his family had ever gotten, like she'd been assigned the "Malfoys suck" beat or something.

Anyway, the weird thing was that she'd changed her mind. She still hated his father, obviously, and there were several paragraphs about that alone; however, she ended it with a bit about how perhaps Draco wasn't so bad. He set aside the paper and finished his cereal, and Gully updated him before work about the mail, which was still arriving in a steady stream. It was probably about his father now that the next article had come out, and he realised it would only get worse after the concert was announced.

Honestly, what were the odds? Draco's luck had gotten demonstrably worse since he'd ended the feud, and it didn't make any sense. He tried to think of someone he could start a new one with, but there wasn't anyone he hated enough. Three months ago, he'd essentially have had his pick of the entire wizarding world, so that was a strange thing in itself. Perhaps he could hold some sort of application process.

He took the Floo to work, and Bianca was in place behind the counter. He thought about starting a feud with her, but that seemed a bit counterproductive. On the bright side, she seemed to understand that he really wasn't mad at her just because he didn't feel like discussing the events in question. She congratulated him on the thing with his dad before she left for the day, and he tried his best to accept her praise without sounding like an ungrateful jerk.

Hermione came to visit him later that evening, and it seemed she'd come as soon as she read the society section – a copy of the day's _Prophet_ was rolled up under her arm. She was pleased, he could tell, so it least there was that.

She set the newspaper on the counter and stabbed it with her index finger. "Is this true?" she asked. "I just had to make sure – they'll make things up sometimes, you know."

He was having trouble sharing her enthusiasm. "It's true," he said. "Not that it's any of their business."

"No, I suppose it's not," she said, as she rolled the paper up to stow it in her bag. "At least it's good news, though."

It wasn't, though, if they'd known the whole story. His father had tried to get under his skin the only way he could from prison, and Draco had retaliated. He hadn't been trying to forsake his father's legacy or make a statement or anything – really, it was just some good old-fashioned passive-aggressive behavior.

"I guess," he said. It looked like she wanted to ask him a few more questions about it, so he changed the subject. "But strangers won't stop owling me about my personal business. It's awful."

She didn't understand what he meant. "Strangers? What are they saying?"

"I don't know, exactly. I haven't read any of it." If she wanted a better answer than that, she'd have to ask Gully.

"Do you know if it's good or bad, even?" He wondered if she was about to scold him for not reading his mail, so he tried to be as detailed as possible, like maybe he'd just been too busy instead of deliberately ignoring it.

"They're good," he admitted. "They act like they know me, though. It's really weird – I mean, who does that, anyway? Who just picks up a quill and writes to a bloke from the newspaper like they're best friends, when they've never even met?"

And then, of course, she thought it was funny. "Draco, I get those letters, too," she said, like his irritation was just about the cutest thing. "That's fan mail."

Fan mail? No, Draco did not get fan mail. He wasn't some kind of self-obsessed hero, giving interviews every other day about how good it felt to be better than other people. He was not a _celebrity_. "That's not the right term," he said.

She reached across the counter to pat his arm, with a reassuring smile. "All right, you don't have to call it that if you don't want to. It's annoying at first, but they're writing you because they like you."

If they liked him so much, they wouldn't feel the need to snoop around in his personal affairs. Especially right now, he didn't understand it – he'd just ended a feud, and things were meant to be going his way. "I'm supposed to be having good luck, though."

She gave him that look like he was sort of an idiot, but at least she wasn't laughing at him anymore. "This _is_ good luck." She pulled the paper back out and smacked the article with the back of her hand. "It was unlikely that a guard would see your letter to your father, know what it meant, and call the_ Prophet _about it. By your great fortune, someone did, and people are really pleased with you right now."

"Why does my good luck have to look at the bigger picture?" he asked, as though she could do something about it. "Nobody wants that. I want immediate payoff. I want to find ten Galleons on the ground or something."

"What are you going to do with ten more Galleons?"

"I don't know. What am I going to do with fan mail, if that's what this even is?" he challenged.

"Read it and smile, I guess." He wasn't going to do either of those things, probably, but it was nice that it worked for her. "If it makes you feel better, it wouldn't impress me at all if your net worth were to increase to a million and ten Galleons. It does impress me that you're standing up to your father, and if it wasn't for this, I wouldn't know about that."

His net worth was, in fact, already much higher than a million and ten Galleons, but he knew better than to make it an issue. "I would've told you eventually." Probably. If it came up. "But really, I've been having the worst luck of my life in the past week."

She laughed and shook her head. "Fine," she said, teasing. "Poor you." Yes, poor him. Finally, someone was getting it. "If you're having such a horrible week, I bet I can think of something to make it better."

"Like what?"

"You can come over, and I'll cook you dinner," she said. "Tomorrow night at seven."

He hadn't eaten a meal prepared by humans since Phoenix Day, and that had been the first of its kind in years, so at least it would shake up the routine. He knew what that meant, too, with the food and wine at Hermione's flat, and he reckoned it had the potential to be pretty lucky. "All right," he said.

"What shall I make?"

"Surprise me."

"Good, I'll see you then." She paused. "And you're really not having bad luck," she added. "A lot of people would love to get some fan mail every once in a while."

That was almost true, he thought. They probably _thought_ they'd love it, just as he had, but then they'd go right back to wishing they'd stayed in bed.


	24. Baking Soda and Vinegar

A/N: Hi! I bet many of you thought this day would never come, but I always knew it would. I just had to get back in the right mood and find the time. I deeply appreciate your patience, and I hope you all enjoy this next chapter as much as always. Thank you again, so very much, for reading. I can't believe this beast of a fic is already 130,000 words, and your views and reviews make it all worthwhile! :)

* * *

**Chapter 24: Baking Soda and Vinegar**

Draco awoke the next morning just as he would on any other day. It was a completely average, run-of-the-mill experience, exactly how he liked it: the sun came in through the windows, his bed was soft and warm, and his wand was in its proper place on his bedside table. He had no reason to expect that he would be bothered, and he had no reason to know the date. However, between this seemingly-average day and Phoenix Day's stealthy approach the previous month, Draco Malfoy would soon begin to seriously consider purchasing a calendar.

The first indication of the day's not-so-average-ness came in the form of an overexcited house-elf. "Good morning, Master!" she chirped. Her voice was going to give him a headache, but she kept going before he could tell her to get out. "It is today that we celebrate the first day of my Master's twenty-seventh year. It is such a joyful day!"

'Joyful' wouldn't have been Draco's first descriptive choice so far. His groggy brain did its best imitation of math: the last time he'd bothered to know the date was June the first, after which approximately three days had passed, divide by pi, carry the one...

Yes, it was June fifth. Draco was officially a massively old, decrepit, denture-gnashing codger, liable to break a hip if he tried to get out of bed too fast. Or, at least he would be soon - he was practically _thirty_, and his hair was so light to begin with that he'd been having grey-hair false alarms since he'd turned twenty-five. It was just so hard to tell.

More practical witches and wizards might have felt differently about achieving the comparatively low and still-really-quite-young age of twenty-seven, but they probably hadn't been raised by Narcissa Malfoy. They probably also didn't have such a long list at hand, passed down from the pure-blood council of centuries' past, denoting all the things they were supposed to have done between reaching adulthood and the advent of their thirtieth year. Of these things, which were too numerous and dry to transcribe, Draco had accomplished somewhere between "definitely none of them" and "maybe half of one if you're willing to give partial credit."

Gully's horrible little voice snapped him out of his burgeoning melancholy. "And the best part is that Master has received many gifts!"

"What?" For the first time, he noticed the large stack of parcels floating behind Gully, kept aloft by blue strands of elf magic. "Are those all from mother?"

"No, sir. They are from the many, many friends of Master."

That was cute, he thought, if a little on the "extremely inaccurate" side, and it did little to explain the origin of the parcels. He hadn't told anyone at work that his birthday was coming up, and he only ever received one gift each from Blaise and Pansy.

"All right, fine. Just leave them on the bed." She levitated them to his side and waited with a frantic smile. "And, er, thank you. For bringing the presents."

"Master is so very welcome!" she exclaimed, satisfied, before offering a low bow and taking her leave.

As he rifled through the pile, nearly every return address took him by surprise. His mother, Blaise, and Pansy were there as expected, but Maggie, Will, and Bianca had also somehow known it was his birthday before he did. That was just the small stuff, though: tied for first place as the biggest shocks of all were his aunt Andromeda and Molly Weasley. Molly "Harry Potter's pretty much mum" Weasley had sent _him_, Draco Malfoy, a birthday present. It was a lumpy package wrapped in newspaper, and he opened the card first with shaking hands:

_Draco,_

_I wasn't sure of the exact date, but I read somewhere that your birthday was at the beginning of June. I know we've never formally met, but please accept this on behalf of the Weasleys as a token of our appreciation for ending the feud. I hope that this will begin a new era of understanding between our two families, and that we will never again experience the senseless tragedy perpetrated by both sides over the last 103 years. Happy birthday._

_Best,_  
_Molly Weasley_

It was dated June the first, but Gully must have saved it for the correct day. He inspected the card thoroughly, opening and closing it, but it appeared to be legitimate and also not cursed. Next, he opened the package and found the ugliest sweater he'd ever seen. It was positively lurid, made of forest green wool with a large grey "D" emblazoned on the front. Perhaps he would wear it, if he ever entered a hideous clothing contest. Like Hermione, he could now say that his worst birthday present had come from a Weasley. He tried to stop smiling, because it was a completely inappropriate reaction, and he didn't know why his chest was getting all tingly. It was probably because he was about to be sick just from looking at such a horrible sweater, which would also explain why he was having trouble catching his breath.

He folded it back up quickly and vowed to put it in the drawer with his cheques, never to be seen again.

Next up was Andromeda, in reverse order of how much he'd been expecting each gift. Her parcel was smaller and felt like a book, and the letter was much longer. She sent him good tidings and told him about her life in much the same way as she had with his mother. At the end of her note, she explained her gift: when she ran away, she took one of the Black family photo albums with her. At that time, it was only half-full, but she'd magically expanded it since then and filled it to the brim.

She wrote that it now contained her wedding photos, along with tokens and images from her daughter's childhood. She had magically copied each individual photo and rearranged them to create an identical album for Draco, which she instructed him to share with his mother. To recap: the estranged, disowned aunt he'd never met and the matron of his least favourite family in the world had each put substantially more manual labour into birthday gifts for Draco than anyone ever had before.

He felt the need to open a familiar gift next, to set his nerves at ease. His mother had been more genuinely thoughtful than usual this year, as opposed to her typical style of getting him things she wished he would want. She'd hired him a decorator for his future flat and set aside money for his first few months' rent, and she had also collected several brochures and business cards for flats that she thought he might like.

It was sweet of her: the flats she'd suggested actually seemed like places Draco would want to live, not her. They were all in the city, for one. The buildings did have doormen, but they were nowhere near as extravagant as he would have expected from his mother. He didn't particularly want a decorator, but he could admit that not having one would have resulted in completely bare walls and a sad wooden coffee table with new water rings appearing every day. He'd do better in the long run to hire a professional who was capable of remembering to buy coasters.

Back in unfamiliar territory, he opened Will's gift next: as he might have predicted, it was a stack of CDs by bands he'd never heard of. Will wished him a happy birthday, but he didn't explain how he'd known it was coming up. Maggie's card, next in line, solved the mystery - back when he'd originally been hired, he had provided his date of birth on the paperwork they made him fill out. She said she'd seen him reading at work, and so she had bought him a copy of her favorite book: _The Wand Hand_, a collection of poetry by Tomas Sterns. Draco wasn't overly interested in poetry, but it was a nice gift nonetheless.

Bianca, true to form, had also given him a book. It was an old Muggle chemistry text from the 70's, which she'd found at a second-hand book store in London, according to the accompanying note. She wrote that she hadn't known what to get for him, but she thought he might find the old book interesting, and that it might perhaps give him some historical context on Muggle science. She'd done well, in his opinion: he was far more likely to read this book than the poetry.

Blaise and Pansy were last in the pile, and their gifts were the most extravagant. Blaise had reserved Falcons box seats for the next season and promised to attend as many of the games with Draco as he could. He even tacitly endorsed Draco's relationship when he mentioned something about a greater need for male bonding, now that they were both off the market. Pansy had purchased her gift during her trip to Colombia: a polished wooden jaguar statue about the size of a house cat, with shining emerald eyes.

As soon as he removed the magically-sealed transparent wrapping, it turned its head to smell his palm, then began to issue a ragged purr. As she'd explained in her letter, the statue would accept the first person to touch it as its master. Now that it had recognised Draco, only he could reach safely into the animal's mouth past its razor-sharp teeth and store small items in its belly. He stroked its head gently, as Pansy's letter instructed, and it obediently unhinged its jaw to reveal the inner compartment, illuminated by an enchanted ring of light.

Conspicuously absent was a gift from Hermione, but Draco didn't mind that at all: five unexpected gifts were more than enough already. His younger self would have accepted any attention or presents that might possibly have been offered, for any reason whatsoever, positive or negative, from his own mother or the Minister of Magic or the crazy cat lady down the street. Those days were over, and now he was quite a bit more discerning. Also, he'd had such a lengthy string of lackluster birthdays that his expectations couldn't get any lower without ceasing to exist altogether. It had been fairly painless back when he knew what was coming: all he had to do was open his three presents, go out for a few drinks with his two friends, and accept one kiss on the cheek at brunch from his mum.

The brunch would still be happening, of course; in her card, his mother had instructed him to join her in the rose garden at ten o'clock that morning for their yearly ritual. It wouldn't be any different now that his father was gone, since he'd never attended the birthday brunches anyway. He'd weaseled out of it years ago by suggesting that it sounded more like a "special mother-son sort of affair" - Draco had only ever heard his father utter the word "special" when he was trying to convince Narcissa to do what he wanted. His mother quite enjoyed the idea, and she was always extra nice to boot. It was easily one of his favourite family obligations, with just the two of them tucked away at the tiny shaded table in the garden while his mother valiantly resisted any and all urges to nag or criticisise. Also, there were always crepes suzette.

He bathed and dressed nicely before beginning his brief journey along the shrub-lined paths across the grounds, and his mother was already waiting with a cup of tea when he arrived. She stood to greet him and gave him his birthday kiss, this time coupled with a surprisingly tight embrace. Her small hands lingered on his shoulders as she pulled back. "Happy birthday, my fine son," she said. "I love you, Draco." She kissed him once more, on the other cheek, before releasing him. It was a great deal more affection than Draco was used to receiving, and he tried not to get too awkward about it.

"Love you, too," he muttered, avoiding eye contact as he took a seat across from her.

"I am so glad that we still have each other," she said. "I keep thinking about what you said a few weeks ago, about us not having any family left, and you know... the more I think about it..." She paused, tapping one manicured nail against the glass table. "Well, I should say this in a polite way. The family we have left is all we've ever needed. I don't think I've ever told you this, but this little brunch is my favourite event of the year," she added conspiratorially, as though she were revealing some deep, dark secret. In a way, she was: it was not typical for Narcissa Malfoy to speak from the heart. "Even when you used to be so surly, it just made me think, 'he'll be better next year, at his next birthday. Someday, he will truly become a man, and it will be almost like sitting down with a friend.' I can see that man now." She turned her eyes to the sky and blinked rapidly for a few seconds. She recovered quickly, but her eyes were still shining with carefully-contained tears.

"Well, then. Good," he said. His throat had grown so dry that he needed a few sips of tea before he could continue. "That's very nice of you to say, mother."

"Did you enjoy your gift?" she asked.

"Of course," he said. It was nice not having to lie for once. "It was exactly what I wanted. Those flats seem like a nice option - I'll have to call around and visit them this week."

"I'm glad," she said. "The condition, of course, is that you must visit. I had an idea while I was waiting here, actually. I don't expect that it will excite you overmuch, but I began to consider having these brunches more often. Once a week, perhaps."

It wasn't much to ask. In fact, it was pretty much the least he could do. "That would be lovely," he said. As long as there were still crepes suzette.

She offered an elegant smile. "Sundays would be traditional, but another day would suit me equally well if it interferes with your work." She paused, sipping her tea, then pursed her lips. "And perhaps," she added stiffly, "if your...that is to say, if your current romantic association reaches a level where you are considering the initiation of a courtship...I would not be entirely opposed to adding another place setting."

This was turning out to be a pretty excellent birthday, especially since a house-elf had arrived just then to serve the food. "Thank you," he said. "That's gracious of you."

She actually nodded, even though it was patently plebeian to agree with a compliment. She must have known how thoroughly she'd earned this one. "Moving onto other matters," she said, "what did you receive this year from Blaise and Pansy?"

"Blaise gave me Falcons season tickets, and Pansy gave me something interesting from Colombia. I'll have to show it to you - it's like a keepsake box that only I can open, but it's decorative as well. You'll like it."

"Oh, yes," she said. "Pansy has impeccable taste. Do you remember what she gave you last year, that ever-frozen ice sculpture from Russia? I will be disappointed when you move it to your flat. What a generous, worldly young woman she is."

If he thought that such a joke had the slightest chance of being well-received, he might have suggested that Narcissa marry Pansy.

"Mm-hm," he muttered noncommittally. It was best not to encourage his mother's weird vicarious crush. They ate in silence for a moment, since Draco only felt comfortable bringing up his other presents after he'd devoured all of his clotted cream. "Those weren't the only gifts I received, by the way."

"Oh?" He guessed she was probably trying not to look too surprised. "What else was there?"

"Some people from work sent some things, mostly books," he said. "Also, there was one from Aunt Andromeda."

She inhaled sharply and set down her fork. "Well, how kind of her! What did she send?"

"She made me a copy of a photo album. It goes all the way back to her wedding. She said I show it to you, too."

His mother nodded, still reeling from surprise. "I'd like to see it. You know, I just realized I've no idea what her husband even looked like."

"Normal," said Draco, "oddly enough. He looked like your average wizard. I would never have guessed if I didn't already know."

Logically, he knew that Muggles and wizards all looked pretty much like human beings, but it was different when it came to his aunt's super-triple-deluxe black sheep husband. Something deep inside Draco, born of the vitriol he'd heard his whole life, had expected Ted Tonks to somehow appear entirely and unmistakably "Muggle." Ted Tonks, in Draco's mind, was the epitome of the most Muggling, Muggle-esque Muggle bloke ever to Muggle his way into bed with an esteemed daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

"Hm. I suppose that's how it usually is, now that I think about it," said his mother. "I have seen her daughter, though, and Dromeda's seen you. Right after you were born, I was so pleased with you that I couldn't help but send her a birth announcement. She sent a photo in return of Nymphadora - she was seven years old at the time. I'm certain I still have it somewhere."

And he felt the tragedy, more and more each day, that they did not still have Nymphadora herself. "I saw her in passing a few times," on the battle field to be exact. "You could tell right off that she was a Black."

Narcissa laughed dryly. "Except that she _wasn't_. She wasn't at all." She cleared her throat and readjusted the napkin in her lap. "This isn't pleasant conversation, although I look forward to seeing the photos she sent."

"That wasn't all of it, either. You'll never guess who the last gift was from." His mother was not known for her great fondness of guessing games, and so she waited silently for Draco to continue. "Molly Weasley."

Oh, her eyes were wide now. "You cannot be serious."

"She knitted me a sweater."

"That is not an amusing or appropriate joke," she admonished.

"I know. It's the truth, I could show it to you - it's... Well, let's just say you don't have to worry about me wearing it in public."

"You are really not being facetious?" she confirmed once more, and he shook his head. "I see. I suppose, in that case, do not forget to send a thank-you note."

When no other response could make any sense, Narcissa Malfoy could always depend on manners. They were set in stone, after all, and could not be refuted.

"Really, mum?" asked Draco, refuting her anyway. "To the Weasleys?"

"To everyone who has marked your birthday with a gift," she said, crossing her arms across her chest. "That's just fine - I've raised a son who doesn't want to send 'thank you' notes. What sort of mother am I?"

"But it was the worst birthday present I've ever gotten," he argued.

"Are you sure about that? What about that one from Bella?"

A dead cat. That's what Aunt Bellatrix got him for his sixteenth birthday. He was fairly certain it was supposed to be some kind of joke, but there was really no telling with her. "I guess that was worse, but it doesn't really count. Bellatrix was barking."

"But did you send her a 'thank you'?"

"Of course, I gave her a bloody card. Who knows what she would've done if I hadn't? Once again, she was completely mad."

"Well, who are you to issue Madam Weasley a clean bill of sanity? This is a very strange action for her to have taken, after all."

Draco didn't really feel like laughing just then, but there were two funny things about that statement. First, his mother had just referred to Molly Weasley as "madam." Second, she seemed to think that knitting someone a sweater as a gesture of goodwill was about the same degree of strange as wrapping up a decomposing animal carcass for one's nephew.

"I think it's supposed to be nice," he said. "I think nice people would think it was normal."

"I see," she said. "Then it is all the more important for you to express your gratitude. Do you want people to think us ungrateful?"

"No, mother," he replied automatically.

She nodded, then offered a smile. "Good, then let us enjoy the remainder of our meal."

* * *

Draco and his mother spent the rest of the afternoon in their own quarters, each reading old books. Narcissa picked through her sister's photo album while Draco studied his new chemistry book, which he found utterly fascinating against all odds.

It was like getting the chance to re-learn Potions, the bizarro version, coupled with brain-teasing logic puzzles that he could also use to do fun things in real life. The only physical experiment he'd actually tried thus far was the simplest one of all, that timeless favourite of children and drunk university students worldwide: a baking soda and vinegar volcano. He'd asked Gully to bring him the ingredients from the kitchens, and then invited her to watch so that he wouldn't feel quite so silly about doing it alone.

It wasn't all just fun, though. He was progressively filling a notebook with his own take on Muggle chemistry and how it related to Potions, and there had even been times when he thought mainstream alchemists were doing themselves a disservice by ignoring the potential benefits of electricity and Muggle science. Hermione would like to hear about that, he knew, and he was planning to bring it up at dinner that night.

As he fixed his hair and gathered his notes walked downstairs to the Floo, he wondered if Bianca had mentioned to Hermione that it was his birthday. He hoped equally that she had and that she hadn't, but there was nothing he could do about it now either way.

When he arrived in Hermione's living room, he was relieved that his typical state of fashion was "conspicuously overdressed." If he'd been a regular bloke and showed up in slightly wrinkled trousers with a Quidditch-themed t-shirt, she might have felt awkward about having worn such a pretty dress.

"You look nice," he said.

She fidgeted with her hands at each side of her skirt, looking down. "Thank you," she said. "So, I'm not the world's greatest cook, but I've got the first course ready now." She gestured toward the kitchen.

"The first?" he asked as he followed her. "How many courses are there?"

"Er, three, I suppose. Just salad, dinner, and dessert." As they entered the kitchen, he noticed how nicely she'd fixed the place up. Fairy lights danced rhythmically in a transparent vase in the centre of the table, changing colours periodically, atop a crisp white linen tablecloth. Music was playing from speakers enchanted to float above the table.

"Wow," he said. "This is nice, too."

"Oh, you know, it's really easy to do. You've seen me conjure those lights before, at the Phoenix Day party - only takes a minute." She shrugged modestly and set out the plates, which appeared to hold a typical garden salad. She indicated his chair as she turned to retrieve the wine, but Draco knew better than to seat himself before a lady. Hermione wouldn't have had any interest whatsoever in that kind of chivalry, he knew, but he would have felt so rude ignoring it that he remained standing anyway. Once the drinks were poured, they took their seats on either side of the table.

She smiled, truly magnetic as the faint yellow lights reflected on her face, and raised her glass. "Here's to twenty-seven. I've been there since September, and it hasn't been half-bad so far."

It was a strange thing to say, he thought, and not just because she was celebrating his birthday. From what he'd heard about the state of her life before he'd stumbled into it several months ago with all the charm and grace of a blast-ended skrewt performing a striptease, to call it only _half_-bad would be quite generous indeed. Draco, for his part, hadn't made things much easier; more exciting, one might say if they were trying to be nice, but Hermione could have gotten that just as well from her Muggle movies. Still, she could describe her own life however she pleased, so he figured he'd just go along with it.

"Cheers," he said, lifting his glass to meet hers. "To twenty-seven."

"I thought about getting you a gift, but it seemed a little... presumptuous, or something. Plus I imagine you'd be nearly impossible to shop for."

"Not really," he said. "You could have knitted me a sweater like Molly Weasley."

She laughed so hard that she almost choked on a cucumber slice. "Ha, a Weasley sweater! I've got loads of them in a drawer somewhere. How'd you know about those?"

"I'm not joking. She really did knit me one, for ending the feud," he said. "Hang on, you're telling me she gives those out to everyone?"

From the look on her face, he could tell she still didn't believe he was serious. "Well, yes, every year at Christmas. But you can't expect me to believe that Molly Weasley sat down and knitted an honest-to-goodness Weasley sweater with a giant 'D' on it - for _Draco Malfoy_."

"If she makes that many, I imagine she must use magic."

"Well, yes, but still." Her eyes were almost pleading, as if it would just about shatter her worldview to learn that Draco was telling the truth.

"I can't expect you to believe me, no, but it's true. I would have brought it with me if I'd have known you'd be so skeptical." He took a few bites of salad and a drink of wine, acting casual as he gave her some time to process the information.

"Wow," she said after a moment. "That's really amazing news. I never in my wildest dreams would have seen it coming. I suppose that's just like Molly, though. I heard they had a pretty wild family party to celebrate the end of the feud, and it always did wear away at them to know that their family was involved in such a senseless battle." She lifted her fork and aimed it in his direction, nearly giddy now in her joy. "And you know, don't take this the wrong way, but she always felt sort of sorry for you when we were kids - caught in the middle like that. She said it was a shame you didn't have a proper father."

She _would _think that. Unfortunately, her concerns were generally founded. "Well, that depends on what she meant by 'proper': he never once attended a social event either over- or under-dressed, and he's only been to jail twice. Don't you think she's being a little harsh?"

She laughed loudly again. "When you put it that way, it almost sounds like you have a point."

Having finished his food, he pushed his plate away. "The salad was good, by the way. What's next?"

She grinned nervously. "Just some roast beef and potatoes - I thought I'd be safest just to keep it simple. It should be tender enough, though. I had it in the slow cooker all day."

Yes, of course, the 'slow cooker.' Draco was not able to translate that into anything meaningful, beyond the obvious implications of the name. "Sure," he said. "Simple sounds fine. Things are too complicated most of the time, anyway."

"I can't argue that," she said. She stood up and cleared their plates away, and he watched the dancing lights as she prepared two new ones. "It feels like it's settling down, though. The only big fiasco we've still got is the concert, and that'll be finished in two weeks. It's really starting to seem like we'll all be able to take the time to relax."

This was less-than-ideal for Draco, who had relaxed way too much over the best several years and was finally ready to start doing something useful. "I guess," he said. "How's your book going?"

"Pretty well," she said. "I had a fine time writing the chemistry parts, but it's challenging for me to translate it into magical solutions. The options from my initial hypotheses haven't worked as I'd expected. It's trickier than I thought it would be to factor in the magical ingredients."

He ate his beef, which was indeed quite tender, as she further explained some of the technical problems she'd been running up against. It was weird, though, because they were the same kind of problems that he'd actually sort of solved. Theoretically, anyway. She was thinking about a lot of things from the wrong angle, and it was slowing her down. He couldn't help but score himself a point for beating Hermione Granger at a chemistry/Potions contest, and he tried to think of a tactful way to correct her as soon as he was certain that he could keep the gloating smile off his face.

"I've noticed a few of those same issues," he said at last. "But I think if you put a bit more emphasis on the underlying components that make each ingredient do what it does, as opposed to their final effect, you might be able to get around some of it."

"How do you mean?" she asked, genuinely confused. "Take Dittany, for example. You can heal wounds with just its essence - it's just one component, and it doesn't necessarily need to be mixed with anything."

"Well, yes, but that's where the Muggle stuff comes in. You take it for granted that Dittany is made of atoms because you've known that your whole life, that everything is. It sounds silly to put it like this, but my first thought was more like: wouldn't a magical plant have to be made of, I don't know, magical atoms?"

"No," she breathed after a few stunned seconds, and he felt deflated until she continued. "That's not silly at all. I never would have thought of it like that. What actually does make Dittany magical? And what makes it a healer instead of a poison?" she asked, mostly to herself. "I don't even know how we'd find that out. Why isn't anyone working on this already?"

"They are, but only from a hard-line magical perspective," he said. He did grow up with access to the Malfoy library, after all, so he wasn't a complete ignoramus. "Alchemists will often study the origin of magic, and so do the Unspeakables, but they keep trying to use more magic to strip away and break down other magic. From what I've read, it hasn't gotten them very far."

"So, then... This is actually somewhat of a breakthrough." She was staring off into space, having completely abandoned any pretense of eating.

He nodded, cocky once more. "You probably shouldn't try to write any more books without me," he said.

He was only kidding, but she took him seriously. "No, I don't think I should." She snapped out of her trance and smiled at him once again. "We shouldn't talk shop at your birthday dinner, but I'd like to set aside time to pick your brain about this. I can give you a co-author credit, even if you'd rather not help me write up our findings."

"All right," he said. "Why not?" He was the opposite of deflated now: he felt like a happy little balloon. He'd felt like that before in his life and usually ended up popping spectacularly, but that didn't seem so likely anymore. "I already have some notes you can take a look at."

"Great," she said, positively beaming now. "Are you ready for dessert?"

He was. She took away the plates again and revealed a small cake, previously hidden in the oven, with candles shaped like a two and a seven and "Happy birthday, Draco!" written neatly in blue icing. It was both the strangest and the most utterly mundane birthday cake he'd ever seen. She placed it before him and lit the candles with her wand.

"I'm not going to sing," she said, which was a relief, "but you still have to blow out the candles."

Blowing out candles on one's birthday cake wasn't only a Muggle thing, and so Draco had heard of it, but it also wasn't a ritual that wealthy pure-blood circles endorsed. There simply wasn't a nice way to put it: blowing out candles was for poor people. In fact, Draco had never even seen a birthday cake cut in his presence. The multi-tiered, gaudy thing would be shown beforehand so that guests could praise its beauty, and then it would be quietly moved to the kitchen to be cut and served by house-elves. Long story short, he had never done this before.

"Should I do it now?" he asked stupidly.

"Yes!" she said. "Otherwise the wax'll melt onto the frosting."

"Oh, right," he said. He turned his head this way and that, looking for the most effective angle, then blew softly in the candles' direction. He'd been worried about knocking them over, but they were sturdier than he thought - they didn't even go out, and he had to try again.

"Good job!" she said, clapping her hands like a child and grinning wide. He found himself smiling back with his whole face, then laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. She removed one of the candles and licked the frosting off the bottom, then gestured for him to do the same with the other. He declined respectfully, and she shrugged and took the other one for herself.

Next, he was presented with an extremely large knife. He figured Hermione didn't want to hurt herself or something, or otherwise it would have been uncharacteristically impolite of her to ask guests to prepare their own food. He cut out two pieces and placed them onto the fresh plates she'd provided, and she returned to her place at the other side of the table.

"I've never had a birthday cake like this," he remarked. It wasn't very good, if he was perfectly honest, but that wasn't Hermione's fault: it was just by comparison to some of the finest bakeries in magical London. Any home-made cake would have come up short.

"Do you like it?" she asked. He could tell she was nervous.

"Yes, it's great. Thanks." Cake was cake, anyway, and honesty had its appropriate time and place.

Once they'd finished the dessert, there was still more wine. Once the wine was gone, there were still more fairy lights and soft music, and he knew he wasn't imagining the looks she was giving him that night. Rather tipsy by that point, she asked him for a dance and drew him by the hand from his chair.

They swayed and twirled gracelessly in her tiny kitchen, casting long shadows on the walls that merged when he kissed her. Their dancing became, as time went on, closer to a different sort of dance-like activity that was not at all appropriate for children. At some point, she asked in a whisper if he'd like to stay the night, and he accepted. He was trying not to seem too eager, but she must have known the truth. It was, in all accuracy, extremely obvious.


	25. Coda pt 1

_A/N: The final chapter was getting so long that I had to split it in half._

**Chapter 25: Coda (part 1)**

Two days later, Draco was still celebrating his birthday. It was easily a personal record, since the most he'd ever done before was get drunk in the Slytherin common room the night before an embarrassingly hungover brunch with his mother. Between this year's better-than-average brunch, all his extra presents (for which he had, of course, sent thank-you notes), and Hermione Granger's sub-par yet utterly wonderful homemade cake, it was a new kind of beginning. Draco's twenty-seventh year was already better than any other in his memory.

And now, as per tradition, he was at the Leaky Cauldron awaiting the arrival of his two oldest friends. Pansy showed up first, as he might have predicted, dressed nicely and even smiling. She kissed his cheek like his mother had and sat beside him.

"Happy birthday," she said. "Can you believe how old we've all gotten?"

"No," he said honestly. "And this was never how I would have pictured us."

"At the same old pub without a ring between us, drinking Muggle liquor?" She gestured to his G&T. "Me, neither."

"It's not so bad, though."

"I suppose not," she said. "At least I don't have any children. I always worried that I wouldn't be able to get out of that."

"There's still time," he teased.

"Oh, I'll be careful."

Blaise arrived then and clapped Draco on the shoulder. A waitress was following him with three firewhiskys and two martinis, which she placed on the table. "I wasn't late," he said, mostly to Pansy. "I stopped to buy a round. Here's to another miserable year of Draco Malfoy's existence," he crowed, raising his glass.

"And as few as possible more!" Pansy added.

"And to my pursuit of better friends," Draco said, before finishing his second drink in one large swallow.

Pansy squeezed his hand across the table. "You love us," she said. "And you can't replace twenty-seven years of memories."

There were times when he wished he could, but that had less to do with Blaise and Pansy and more to do with family members, deranged werewolves, and snake-faced despots.

Blaise took one of the new martinis for himself and pushed the other one toward Pansy. "I've got good news for you, Malfoy," he said. "Daphne's rather pleased with you these days. She said you did a good job with Amarantha, and she's always thought your family's feud was a bit on the tacky side. She was shocked that you were the one to end it."

"So was I," he admitted. "And she's one to talk-when's the last time the Greengrasses agreed to do business with the Macmillans?"

Blaise shook his head and sighed. "That's our Malfoy," he said cynically. "You know that was her father's fault—Jasper Macmillan has long-term memory damage from all the Forgetfulness Potions, not to mention the long-term bank account damage from all the debts he forgot to collect. Daphne's tried to send him a few cheques, but he never brings them to Gringott's. Thinks it's some kind of scam, I expect, since he can't remember who she is. He can't figure out why a stranger would be trying to give him so much money for no reason."

Draco sipped his drink awkwardly. Considering the way Daphne treated him, he tended to forget that she was still a bona fide Good Person when Draco wasn't around. "Well, I'm glad she likes me now."

"I didn't say she liked you, but she approves of you." In pure-blood circles, that particular distinction was well-understood. He didn't have another friend yet, but he could cross another enemy off his list, which might even bring it down into the double-digits. "She wants you to see Amarantha, at least."

"Fine." This seemed like a good time to change the subject, so Draco tried to think of any news he could share as the conversation lulled. "So, I'm writing a book," he said.

Blaise raised his eyebrows. "Good for you—as long as it's not a children's book."

"If it is, I want to help," Pansy said with wicked delight. She began to narrate in a sing-songy, high-pitched voice that she must have imagined would go over well with children: "Once upon a time under your bed, there was the scariest monster ever to exist. Oh, did I say 'once upon a time'? I meant currently."

"It loves eating children," Blaise continued, imitating Pansy's deranged mockery of a bedtime-story voice. "Not for any particular reason. That's just what it does."

"It's coming out to eat you probably within the next week, depending on its schedule. Tonight? Tomorrow? Who can say?"

"Good night, little children. Sleep well." Blaise concluded the story with an evil laugh, and Pansy joined in.

"I think you're onto something," Draco said. "If Aunt Bella were alive, I'd ask her to work on some illustrations."

"She could_ be_ the illustrations," Pansy said dryly. "We'll just paste in her old mug shot. I remember when that _Prophet _edition came out with her on the cover—she starred in my nightmares for weeks."

Bellatrix had starred in Draco's nightmares for twenty years, but he didn't want to turn this into a competition. "I'm sure your children's book will be a best-seller, but mine's a little more advanced. It's about Potions."

He waited for shock, disbelief, or even laughter, but none came. Blaise nodded and took a sip of his drink, and Pansy flashed him a genuine smile.

"I was always surprised you never did anything with Potions," she said. "None of us would've survived that class if it wasn't for you." She shared a grimace with Blaise.

"Definitely not," Draco said. As inconspicuously as possible, he allowed his shoulders to sag with relief. "You two weren't that bad, but Greg and Tracey would still be at Hogwarts trying to brew a Polyjuice to this day." Crabbe would, too, but Draco didn't feel like mentioning him.

Suddenly, Pansy began to laugh, just as Draco had feared—really howling, with her teeth showing and her eyes all scrunched up, just the way she almost never did in public because she thought it was ugly. Draco would never tell her this, but her infrequent displays of real, in-the-moment laughter were some of the only times he found her especially attractive. This time, however, he winced and waited for the inevitable. She'd tell him he was silly to even consider the idea. She'd tell him he wasn't qualified to write a real book, that no one would read anything with his name on it, that he might as well face the facts and give up before he embarrassed himself.

"What is it?" Blaise asked. "_Pansy_?"

"Go ahead," Draco said, scowling. "Tell us what's so funny."

The more they bothered her, the more she laughed. Finally, she collected herself enough to speak. "It's so ironic, that's all. I never thought about it before, but I just realised that Draco was the Hermione Granger of Slytherin!" Still breathless, she looked between the two men, who didn't quite get the joke. Draco was relieved again, but now he was also confused. "You know, we always used to make fun of Potter and Weasley for being too stupid to do their own homework. Then, we'd go back to the common room and shove our Potions essays off on Draco. Don't you see? It's so_ ironic_!"

No one else found it as funny as she had, but Draco understood what she meant now. He'd never thought of it that way before, and it wasn't such a bad comparison. Plus, if Draco were the Hermione Granger of Slytherin, that meant he was probably capable of helping her write a book.

"I doubt Granger charged as much," Blaise muttered.

"She couldn't have," Pansy said. "Weasley would've needed a payment plan."

For what Draco had charged, of course, it was about the equivalent of Hermione helping her impoverished friends for free: he'd only demanded the bare minimum to keep himself from looking like a pushover. In fact, he'd done Crabbe and Goyle's work in exchange for petty errands like bringing him snacks from the kitchens. It was all about house pride, you see, and had nothing to do with helping his friends when they needed it. He couldn't have shown his face in the Great Hall knowing that half the Slytherin table was failing hopelessly in their own Head of House's class.

He wasn't offended like he would've been back in the day, but he still wasn't going to let Pansy get away with this sort of joke unscathed. "Now that we're on the subject, Pansy, why don't you tell Blaise about how you were the Hermione Granger of Charms?"

"_Draco_," she hissed.

"You see," he explained, directly to Blaise, "Pansy was Flitwick's favourite. He used to give her special little Charms assignments and extra reading."

"The Parkinson line has never produced a squib or a dunce," she huffed. "I was encouraged to pursue my talents."

"Well, obviously," Blaise said. "Why was this some big secret?"

It seemed to catch her off-guard, and she shrugged. "You know, I'm not sure. It would have been a lot worse back then for you blokes to call me 'the Hermione Granger of Charms.'" Draco doubted very much that they would have, for several other once-relevant reasons, but he knew what she was getting at: there would come a time in every clueless teenager's life when it simply wasn't cool to be smart, especially when that teenager was a wealthy pure-blood scion whose family was already picking out the table linens for her wedding. At the time, it would have been a terrible thing to be like Hermione Granger-the witch whose current success rivaled that of Blaise and easily tripled his and Pansy's, put together. "I wasn't going to tell anyone about this yet," she continued, "but I've actually been working on a charm lately."

Draco could tell from her sudden stiff demeanor that she felt the same way he did a few moments ago, when he told them about his book. She studied the table and ran a finger around the rim of her glass nonchalantly, as though she didn't care one bit about how he and Blaise might react. "As in, one you've invented?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "I thought of it in Rome last year, after I'd gotten thoroughly sick of being groped by strangers-do you know that lower-class men believe that they can just reach out and touch a complete stranger?" Draco and Blaise nodded slowly, having both spent more time than Pansy in "lower-class" pubs. "Well, I didn't appreciate it. I've been working on a mild stinging charm that a woman can put on her clothing when she does not wish to be touched. It would also work as a thief deterrent on jewellery or anything else worth stealing."

"Why not just use an Imperturbable?" Blaise asked.

"I did, temporarily, but it didn't do much to teach a lesson," she said, wrinkling her nose. "There are other similar charms, too, but I need one that won't randomly sting me or innocent passerby."

"I think it's a good idea," Draco said. "I'd use that on my wallet if I were concerned about pick-pockets." He probably wouldn't bother, to be perfectly honest, but he was trying to be encouraging: it was good to see Pansy trying to do something useful. He might even ask Hermione if she had any contacts in Experimental Charms who'd be willing to take on an antisocial but secretly competent apprentice.

"Marketable, too," Blaise commented, nodding as he thought it over. "It's simple, easy to explain, and convenient."

This was a high compliment coming from Blaise, and Pansy placed a hand over her chest with a carefully-contained smile. "It's just something I've been working on," she said. "If it works, it works."

"It'll work," Draco said.

* * *

Draco couldn't sleep that night, even though he'd been properly birthday drunk when he got home. He lay in bed wide awake for over an hour even after he'd sobered up. In addition to dreading the final rehearsal tomorrow and managing some early-onset stage fright, he had some thinking to do.

Seeing Pansy had reminded him of their last encounter, when he'd extracted some of her actual emotions on his couch. She'd asked him to tell her what it felt like if he fell in love with Hermione. He'd never actually agreed to do so, which was a relief, because he didn't know if he could. He sort of had this secret fear that he was incapable of love. In the two years he'd spent with Astoria, she'd really loved him, and there were moments when he thought he loved her, too. At the same time, he knew that love as Special Thing—love as living, breathing entity—couldn't be a passing thought.

He tried to remember what it felt like to look at Astoria the first few weeks they'd been dating. He remembered wanting to have sex with her, and right now he wanted to have sex with Hermione. That part felt about the same. He remembered thinking in terms of labels and milestones: how many more dinners did he have to buy her before she was his girlfriend? How many more kisses before they fell into bed? How many more presents before one of them was a ring? How many more times did he have to tell her and himself that he loved her before lightning struck and it came true, and how were you even supposed to know?

* * *

Once he'd finally fallen asleep, morning came much too soon, dragging with it a whole group of people whose respective relationships to Draco were ill-defined at best. Hermione was a big ball of bewilderment on her own, and the majority of his other costars were confusingly not at all his friends but no longer his enemies. Maybe some people could have found peace with such an ambiguous arrangement, but Draco was not accustomed to indifference.

It was no secret that he would be glad when it was all over, especially since there would be fewer people hanging around his house unsupervised. The rehearsals had continued on schedule for those who needed them, and Draco had ignored them more or less successfully—there were silencing charms around the practice room, so it wasn't difficult. They'd scrapped the whole idea of group photos, supposedly due to "time constraints." The promotional posters had gone up with only separate head-shots of all the big names, which was pretty much everyone involved except Will and Dean, whom nobody had heard of but who were also the only actual musicians involved—P.R. was a strange animal, as Draco well knew.

It was only at this, the final dress, where his presence was required. Also required, of course, was the presence of Harry Potter and George Weasley. Draco had prepared himself with a mild relaxing draught in his morning coffee, one that would calm his nerves without making him drowsy, and he was starting to think he might have poured it on the heavy-handed side.

He sat in his living room, staring absently at the wall, and he didn't even turn his head when the first visitor entered through the Floo.

"Hi, Drake," they said. "Are you ready to go?" They paused. "Are you all right, mate?"

"Fine," he said. "Whatever." He looked at the speaker and confirmed that it was Will.

"Where are the chairs?"

"Oh. Ask a house-elf, I reckon." He switched his gaze to his hand, opening and closing his fingers. He overheard pieces of a conversation between Gully and Will, and soon chairs were being set up around him. Fine. Whatever. It was all the same to Draco. Will continued talking, even though Draco was still floating on fluffy substance-induced clouds. His voice sounded faraway and soft.

"Listen, mate, I've been thinking." He sat in the chair beside Draco and adjusted his glasses.

"Oh," said Draco. "Good for you."

"And I've come to the conclusion that I went too far with that potion. It really wasn't any of my business." Draco turned half-way round to face the other man, studying his expression as best as he could through the haze. Will certainly had gone too far, but Draco was used to other people trying to re-plan his life for him. At least Will hadn't gone as far as his father, his aunt, or their precious little Dark Lord.

"You've got that right," he said. "And I still don't understand why you did it. Most of the time, when people trick me into doing things I don't want to do, it helps them somehow."

"It did help me, in a way," Will said. "I like you, and I like George, and I want all my friends to get along."

"That's stupid," said Draco, with his loose and very relaxed tongue. "Some people aren't supposed to get along."

"That's where we disagree." Will glanced at the Floo, which was still empty, and Draco realized that he must have intentionally shown up early to have another Gryffindor-style heart-to-heart. "But I guess I can't force it."

"Neither can your wife," Draco commented idly.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I was thinking about this recently as well, while I was being bombarded with mail from strangers about whether or not George Weasley and I have ever snogged—" He paused to make his most disgusted possible face. Some of the witches sending him so-called "fan mail" seemed a little too concerned with the answer to this particular question. "—and I started wondering who would be better-suited to make such a complicated potion: the Muggle music columnist, or the published Transfiguration scholar?"

If he were capable of such displays of awkwardness, Will might have blushed. "Don't blame her. It was still my idea."

"It doesn't matter, either way," Draco said. He yawned into his hand and let his head slump sideways, nearly resting on his shoulder. "I'm glad you had her do it, to be honest. Less likely to bugger it up."

Will nodded. "Good thing you took that relaxation draught, or this conversation might have gone differently."

"You're a lucky bloke," he said.

"So are you."

Before he could respond with the most passionate disagreement his foggy mind could muster, the Floo activated. Dean entered first, followed a moment later by Donaghan, Gwen, and then Bianca. They each greeted Draco and asked if he was all right, like Will had, and he just shrugged and nodded. Now that there were other people to talk to Will, he figured it was safe for him to tune them all out and wait for it to be over. It was the last rehearsal, he reminded himself. He'd never have to do this again.

"I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing," Will was saying. "Someone can fill him in later if he misses something important."

"That can be your job," Dean replied, "but you're probably right. Our part's the hard one anyway."

"If only we could get some of whatever he had for Harry and George. Then we'd be set." They all laughed, and Draco realized they were talking about him. Did he care? Well, no. Not particularly.

"It's funny, to read the _Prophet_ you'd think George was here this morning for tea and maybe a cuddle." More laughter, and Draco was glad he'd skipped the last two articles about the Weasleys and himself. The letters were bad enough.

In a way, he wished his life was more like the tabloids' version: _Witch Weekly _had covered Astoria's "dream wedding" more than once during their relationship, without ever consulting either the "bride" or the "groom" of the entirely fictional event in question. On the other hand, if he actually lived in tabloid fantasy world, he'd be concerned about Pansy's reproductive health and ability to perform contraceptive charms: if she'd really been pregnant every time they reported it, she would have had at least seven or eight miscarriages by now. Tabloid fantasy world also contained weird caricatures of George Weasley and Draco Malfoy who were best friends forever, which was less than appetizing.

Hermione entered next. She greeted everyone else in the room, then paused before Draco. "Are you ill?" she asked, with a lot more concern than anyone else so far.

"He's drugged," Will explained helpfully.

"He's _what_?"

"I'm not," Draco said, which wasn't entirely true. It was an accident, though—it wasn't like he'd been mixing recreational potions. "I just had a bit too much Draught of Peace."

"Oh." She turned to Will and cast him a dirty look. "You could've just said that."

"As far as I can see, it's the same thing." Draco added a look of his own, and Will seemed to realize that he was still on thin ice. "But you're right-it's very different. Sorry," he added.

Hermione touched Draco's face absently before sitting beside him, running cool fingers down his cheek, and he felt even more peaceful than before. Blaise arrived next, followed closely by the rest of the "five minutes late" crowd: Potter and George. Ironically, while Blaise was glaring as soon as he stepped inside, the other two weren't. They weren't grinning and waving and clamouring to invite Draco to their picnic, but they didn't seem liable to make a fuss, either. Blaise sat stiffly on Draco's other side and surveyed the group.

"Where's Pansy, then?" he asked.

"Owled me last night after we left the pub," Draco said. "Wasn't ever really planning to do it."

Blaise nodded. "I'm not surprised."

"Said she'll go to the concert, though."

"That doesn't surprise me, either—_everyone's _going. People are pretty excited." He lowered his voice and leaned in. "My mum's going."

Even in Draco's state of mind, that penetrated. Everyone who was anyone knew that Simone Zabini didn't get out of bed for less than ten potential glamorous photo-ops. She was generally an unpleasant person to deal with, but she liked Draco because she found him handsome. Too handsome, in fact, ever since he broke up with Astoria: at Blaise and Daphne's parties since then, there had been more than one conversation that ended with Draco backing away and repeating, more loudly each time, "THIS HAS BEEN A PLEASANT AND APPROPRIATE CONVERSATION, MS. ZABINI." By this point, Pansy usually heard him and came to the rescue before Blaise figured out what was going on. It was true that Simone Zabini was a stunning woman, but she wasn't worth dying for, assuming the rumours were also true.

"Wow," he said. If Simone Zabini was coming, he didn't need to worry about being embarrassed to participate. Moreover, if Simone Zabini was coming to Malfoy Manor, he didn't need to worry about being a bad son ever again. He'd just filled his mother's social calendar for the next year.

Once everyone was settled, Will took his place at the front of the room. "So," he said, "a lot has happened since we first began planning. When Dean and I drunkenly came up with the idea, we pictured the two of us performing in a field somewhere for an audience named 'Bianca and Seamus.' Our hopes weren't high, and they never would have been this high. Before we begin, I'd like to extend my gratitude to Drake: you didn't have to do this-any of it-especially with certain, er, events in your personal life. Thank you."

He stopped speaking and began to clap steadily, and soon the rest of the room joined in. Draco looked for Potter and George, who were applauding as well even as they stared resignedly at the ground. For such a small thing, it had a profound effect. It felt good in an utterly foreign way; it wasn't like pleasing his father, the three or four times a year when Draco had managed to do that, and it wasn't like eating a fine meal. It wasn't even like reading a good book: it was sort of like _being_ a good book and knowing that people were feeling good from reading _him_.

Hermione reached over and squeezed his shoulder, right there in front of everyone. "Thank you," she repeated, whispering against the noise.

"Moving forward," Will continued as the applause died down, "I'd also like to thank everyone else for their time and effort. We know you're busy, but it's starting to look like this whole thing will go over quite well. I hope that by the end, you'll find it was worth your while. Onto business: we've finalized all the acts, and Bianca's passing out copies of the line-up." He gestured to his wife, who stood and took a lap around the circle, handing a piece of parchment to each performer. Draco glanced at his and found that Potter was first, and he was up last. Some things would never change. He didn't bother reading anything else on the sheet, since there'd be someone backstage to direct him. He'd never heard of the song he'd be singing, so its title meant nothing to him. He folded the parchment up in his lap and waited for the meeting to end.

"...and I know it's an open bar, but try not to get too drunk before you go on-alcohol can interfere with the voice and movement charms. Same goes for certain potions, so go easy on the Pepper-up and Draught of Peace." Everyone looked at Draco, and he ignored it. "I think that's all I've got for you, unless anyone has a question." He paused to survey the room, but no hands were raised. "Great. Everyone try to get a good night's sleep and be back here by five o'clock tomorrow. Doors at seven, Harry goes on at eight."

Everyone agreed. Most of them left. Hermione stayed a bit longer and tried to convince Draco to stay awake, but he wasn't interested, and she rejected his offer to accompany him for a nap. She left, too, and he went back to sleep.

* * *

Draco woke up around noonish the next day, after spending the previous evening reading and drinking tea while his potion wore off, and he felt quite relaxed and refreshed.

It didn't last long. He was soon informed by an excited house-elf that people were already lining up outside the gates, waiting to be let in, and those were just a fraction of the hundreds who would soon watch him flail around on stage like some kind of Muggle—in the literal sense, not the pejorative. If Harry Potter was doing the same thing, he wondered, did that make it more or less embarrassing?

He went outside to the grounds, where they were mostly set up. Will was already there, directing the house-elves and various technicians, but Draco didn't bother to say hello. He went back inside and ate breakfast in his bedroom, so as to avoid thinking about this as long as possible. He was so jittery he almost spilled his tea. Draco was not shy, but truthfully he thrived in a small-group setting, and this group would not be small. He spent the rest of the early afternoon trying to stay calm and distract himself, but nothing was working. All he could do was watch the cruel and unrelenting march of minutes until five o'clock.

When he reemerged, mostly resigned to his fate, the grounds were unrecognizable. An entire magically-lit stage was set up, as tall as his house, with sweeping red curtains pulled to the sides. Rows of padded seats stretched outward opposite the stage, and around the outskirts were magically heated or cooled tables piled high with complimentary refreshments, donated by his mother. It was empty now except for the staff, but he could hear the crowd outside the gates from where he stood. A house-elf with a clipboard caught sight of him and led him backstage, checking off his name on the roster and speaking into a tiny device near her mouth that was attached to her ear by a wire. "My master is arrived," she said, "we are on our way."

She took him to a magical tent set up behind the stage and held the door as he entered. The inside was quite spacious and tastefully-decorated, but there were still only two dressing rooms to be found—men's and women's. Most of the group was already there, and Draco was rather surprised to overhear an animated conversation about Muggle music between Blaise and Will. He went to join Hermione instead, who was obsessively fixing her hair in front of a mirror, oblivious to the rest of the room.

"That's as good as it's going to get," he told her helpfully.

She huffed, not moving her gaze. "Is that a challenge?"

"No, I mean it's already good. You look good."

She smiled at herself in the mirror this time, but she still didn't meet his eyes. "If you say so," she muttered, clearly not meaning it. He knew how to take a hint, and the clues all pointed to Hermione not wanting to be bothered. The problem was that he didn't feel like bothering anyone else in the room, and so he sat down quietly and waited for something to happen.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	26. Coda pt 2

_A/N: Oh, jeez. I must admit that I'm tearing up as I write this and a little overwhelmed, but I'll try to keep it short. This was the first story I ever tried to write, period. I never dreamed it would be this long or take this long to complete, but it's finally done. When I started it two and a half years ago, I was just as desperately unhappy as Draco, but my life has transformed since then. I know this story is fluffy and silly a lot of the time, but it's also about getting better. Accepting help when you need it, and then helping other people. Loving them even when you're terrified that they won't love you back. __Finding that delicate balance between unconditional self-acceptance and an equally unconditional commitment to self-improvement. _

_Thank you for reading, from the bottom of my heart. Your reviews have meant the world to me, especially since (as you probably noticed from this embarrassingly sappy A/N) this is a much more personal story than it might appear at first glance. I hope you enjoy the ending, and don't worry about me writing more stories—I absolutely will!_

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* * *

**Chapter 25: Coda (pt 2)**

..._The__ problem __was__ that __he__ didn't__ feel__ like__ bothering__ anyone__ else __in __the __room,__ and __so__ he__ sat __down __quietly __and__ waited __for__ something __to __happen._

However, just because Draco wasn't going to bother anyone did not mean that they wouldn't bother him. Potter took the empty seat beside him, and Draco tried to look busy by cleaning his nails.

"Nervous, Malfoy?"

Draco prodded delicately at one of his cuticles, as though he were working on something very important. "No," he said. "But I'm afraid I can't talk right now."

"Manicure issues?" Potter leaned over his shoulder, and Draco suppressed his instinctive urge to elbow him in the face. He didn't want to fight like a teenager anymore, but old habits died hard, and also Draco valued his personal space. "Looks fine to me."

"I didn't know you were such an expert," he said. He stood up nonchalantly and brushed off his shoulder, where his former enemy had breathed on him.

Potter remained seated and shrugged. "Just trying to be helpful," he said. "If it makes you feel better, I'm a bit on edge myself. It's a big crowd."

"I thought you liked those," Draco said. He wasn't trying to be a prick about it—just making an observation.

Potter smiled and shook his head. "Sometimes," he admitted. "About as much as you do, I guess."

Draco looked around for someone else to talk to, but everyone else was either legitimately busy or just as appealing as Potter. He settled for checking his hair in a nearby mirror.

"You should have more concerts here," Potter said. Perhaps he was training for the Small Talk World Championships.

"Maybe," he said. He pushed his hair this way and that, watching his reflection.

"It's a nice venue."

"Yeah."

"And your mum's good at party planning."

"Sure is."

"And the, er...the peacocks are pretty." Potter was faltering, and Draco smiled at himself in the mirror.

"That's why we got them," he said.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Potter nod awkwardly, and there was a moment of golden silence. Draco thought he had successfully ended the conversation, but he barely had time to congratulate himself before Potter caught his second wind.

"Were you excited about your song?" he asked, as though the two of them chatting about nothing were the most natural thing in the world.

If Draco kept flicking at his hair any longer, Potter would find out how vain he really was, and so he abandoned the mirror. He turned and stared at Potter's silly scar to create the illusion of eye contact. "I've never heard it before," he said. "Don't you have something to do other than talk to me? You're up first."

Potter sighed and adjusted his glasses wearily. "Why do you have to be so prickly all the time?" he asked. "You can't just be nice to Hermione and nobody else and expect her to be all right with it."

"I _was_ being nice," he said. "I'm nice to plenty of people."

"You know what I mean," he said. "She's my best friend, Malfoy: how do you see our future playing out?"

"'Our future' as in... you and me?" He was genuinely confused now. Potter wasn't accusing him of anything, and he didn't even seem to be playing games. In fact, it was starting to feel more like Potter was asking him out.

"Yes, you and me. I just want to make sure you think this through," he said. He got up from his chair and stood directly in front of Draco. "Because if you're thinking long-term with her, you're thinking long-term with all of us. I didn't like it at first, either—trust me, I _didn__'__t_—but I've come to the conclusion that if you two stay together, the two of us are going to end up... friends." He didn't seem happy about the idea. In fact, he'd made the word sound like an Unforgivable Curse. Nonetheless, he seemed pretty certain about it.

"It doesn't have to be that way," Draco said, even though his personal policy was not to negotiate with terrorists. "Would you settle for... casual acquaintances?"

Potter laughed, like he thought it was a joke or something. "That works for now. I'm just saying: think about what you're getting into." He patted Draco on the shoulder and strolled away, leaving Draco to wonder whether he was being threatened, propositioned, insulted, or all of the above.

Before he could decide, a house-elf came over and hustled Potter into the men's dressing room to get ready. Draco stared into the space where Potter had stood and considered the possibility of their... friendship_._They had very little in common, aside from their enjoyment of Quidditch, annoyingly public lives, and mutual friends. That sort of sounded like a lot, actually, but really it wasn't. Also, Draco had enough friends already. It was harder than it looked, having more than two. There was so much pressure, so many things to keep track of: birthdays (when he could scarcely remember his own), plans made, and simply keeping up on the day-to-day events of another person's life. Lately he'd been wondering if it was worth it at all.

To be perfectly honest, he was glad to be up last in the show. It gave him time to mentally prepare. He milled around, strategically avoiding people, for the better part of an hour, especially after Potter had emerged in full stage attire—apparently Draco could look forward to a swipe of mascara.

He kept out of the way and watched other people rush around, thinking of how strange this all was and how he'd been swept up in one thing after another since the first second he laid eyes on Hermione in the Raven. Regardless of whether or not he was capable of "love," she sure had a way of getting him to do things. She got under his skin in a way that no other woman had before—that is to say, in a _good_ way. Not like Pansy or Astoria or even that French witch with the odd-coloured eyes who used to call him _mon__ beau__ branleur_ and refused to tell him what it meant.

When it was his turn, a house-elf took him to the dressing room just as she had with everyone else. She presented him with a Muggle outfit that thankfully wasn't too ridiculous, although the jeans were extremely tight, and applied the dreaded mascara. He understood the purpose, but the thing was that Draco had sensitive eyes. He eventually decided it wasn't the biggest sacrifice he'd made that day or even that week, and so he left his lengthened dark brown eyelashes how they were and followed the house-elf to the edge of the stage, behind the curtain.

Bianca was waiting there in the shadows to cast the proper charms, and she smiled at him so brilliantly that he knew it was going well so far. He heard Will announce him to the crowd as she lifted her wand. When the spell was complete, his whole body began to tingle and went numb as she pushed him past the curtain. He normally would have stumbled from a shove like that, but the spell kept him steady. His legs began to move his body forward—in a smooth rock-star swagger—up to the lone microphone at the front of the stage. It was just for show, of course: according to the concert planners, this was what Muggles used to project their voices. Will had thought it would be a fun prop.

Draco had never been on stage before, and nothing could have prepared him for the lights. He thought he'd be stunned by the crowd, which would have looked infinite from up there, but he couldn't see them at all: he could only see the lights. Slowly, the cheering faded away, and Draco stood in silence for a few harrowing seconds.

His hand reached itself outward, took hold of the microphone, and brought it close to his lips.

_"Hey, Jude,"_ he sang, against his will,_ "don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better."_*

At first, it was just him singing with Dean on the piano. After a few more lines, he heard drums and a tambourine kick in behind him. Back-up vocals buoyed his own magically-enhanced voice, courtesy of the real rock stars. Thankfully, he wasn't doing a lot of dancing. The spell had him swaying a bit, a fair shot more gracefully than he could've managed on his own, but it wasn't a fast enough song to warrant much more.

_"For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder."_

But the non-dancing couldn't last forever—at the end of the song, things got a little intense. His fists threw themselves forcefully into the air, his head nodded vigorously back and forth and side to side. It was rather fun, actually. He didn't have to worry about anything except staying conscious, and he was doing a fantastic job in that regard. He must have looked sharp, too, judging by the crowd's enthusiasm.

_"And don't you know that it's just you—hey, Jude, you'll do. The movement you need is on your shoulder."_

The Muggle songwriter must have ran out of good lyrics at some point, because Draco had to dance around singing meaningless syllables for an awkwardly time, but it was over soon enough. As the last of the music faded with a few decisive notes on Dean's piano, his charmed legs forced him into a run toward the front of the stage, and his knees hit the wood floor hard as he slid dramatically to the edge of the crowd. They were screaming for him, screaming for more, and their hands reached up to grab him, and his heart was beating so hard it seemed liable to explode.

He held the position as the tingles returned, and then the charm wore off. He rose uncertainly to his feet and half-ran, half-stumbled inelegantly behind the curtain.

The first thing he saw when he made it offstage was Hermione, and he'd never seen anyone look so happy. Draco didn't believe in destiny, but it was almost as though he could feel the universe tugging him forward in that moment. When he'd crossed the distance between them, he put his hands on her waist and pulled her very close. She looked surprised, and it seemed like she was about to say something, but this moment was not for talking. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers, and she didn't stop him.

Her fingers slid up his neck into his hair, while his hands roamed from her hips up to her bare back. He felt her tangled hair and the sweat on the back of her neck and the solid bones of her spine. She was gasping for air against his mouth, but they didn't stop.

A few minutes or perhaps hours later—Draco couldn't tell—he noticed dimly that there was a throat being cleared rather conspicuously behind Hermione. She didn't seem to hear it, and Draco tried to ignore it, but the throat-clearer then launched an obviously fake and extremely loud coughing fit, echoed by a second cougher, and finally Hermione pulled away. As Draco had suspected, it was some grumpy-looking Gryffindors, in a state because Draco had gotten to be really happy for a minute.

When Hermione turned around to look at them, they immediately tried to look less grumpy, with limited success. Hermione edged a few centimetres away from Draco, but then she reached back and grabbed his hand, and he felt an unexpected rush of relief.

"Er," Potter began stiffly, avoiding eye contact with Draco. "Good job out there." It wasn't clear who he was talking to, but no one responded anyway. Everyone was pretty much trying to pretend this moment wasn't happening.

"Not too bad," George added. He shifted his gaze to Hermione. "There are some people waiting to see you," he said. More Weasleys, if Draco had to guess: there would _always_ be more Weasleys.

"Oh, yes, of course." She tried her best to smooth her hair with her free hand, but she'd have to douse it with a few buckets of water to make it look even marginally less sexy at that moment, completely tangled and out of control. She smiled quickly at Draco and squeezed his hand. "I'll come find you later," she whispered, and then she let go of his hand to follow the others, who were already walking away.

Maggie, Will, and Bianca came in right after they left, while Draco was still standing there with his pulse racing. Maggie rushed forward to hug him tightly, and he managed to hug her back, because he'd sort of been expecting that one. "Oh, Draco, the show was amazing!" She pushed him back to arm's length but kept her hands on his shoulders. "You're a natural performer."

"It was mostly the charm," he said. Modesty wasn't his typical M.O., but he didn't want an invitation to do this again anytime soon. Maggie let him go, and Will grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously.

"The crowd loved you either way, mate," he said. He had to push his glasses up every few seconds with the sweat running down his face, but Draco couldn't judge him because he was in the same condition. More than just bright, those lights were _hot_. "Are you ready to join the party, or did you want to clean up first?"

"I think you should both clean up," Bianca said.

Draco absolutely agreed, especially because his jeans were starting to chafe. "Yeah, I'll be out there when I'm decent."

Will didn't let him go alone, though. He went with Draco to the dressing room, where he continued to keep up the casual conversation while they changed. Draco found this awkward, but at least they were facing opposite directions. When everyone was back in normal clothing, Will cast cooling and drying charms on both of them.

"Why didn't you just use one of those on stage?" Draco asked.

"I did. It wore off probably during Jane's song, but I didn't get a chance to cast a new one. She was great, wasn't she?" Will grinned and raised his eyebrows.

"I don't know," he said. "I was back here."

"You were?" Will frowned as though he'd just done something very wrong. "Why didn't you come out and watch?"

"Was I supposed to?"

"Well, for Jane, yeah. You were."

"I was?" Even as the question left his lips, Draco guessed that, yes, he probably was. He was still getting used to this sort of thing, providing emotional support to another person when his own emotions were held up with toothpicks and Spello-tape. "Oh."

Will shook his head, then clapped Draco on the back. "Ah, well. Next time!"

As Will steered him out of the dressing room, he tried to explain that there would definitely not be a next time, but it wasn't a good time for enforcing realistic expectations. Everyone was much too excited.

When they left the tent, Draco found his mother waiting and smiling and decked out to the nines. She stepped forward and kissed Draco on the cheek. "I am so proud of you," she whispered in his ear. "And I just had the most wonderful conversation with Simone!" she added, more audibly.

"That's good," he said. "Did she like the show?"

"She did," his mother said, in the same tone of voice a person might use to say _'the war is over!'_ "She said she's looking forward to attending more events at the manor."

"I'm glad you both liked it," Will said. He was clearly trying to excuse himself politely, but seeing Will and his mother together had given Draco a rather devious idea. "I'll catch up to you two later—"

"Hang on," Draco said. "We never got a chance to tell my mother how you helped our family." Will looked confused, but he'd understand soon enough. Draco turned to his mother. "Will's actually partly responsible for ending the feud, mum. If he hadn't snuck that Pathos Potion into my drink, George and I may have never talked at all."

"If he hadn't _what_?" As he watched his mother's entire demeanor freeze over like an angry glacier, he could see Will start to shake his head vigorously in his peripheral.

"You know, he just put it in there," Draco continued, "without my knowledge..."

That was all it took. She unleashed the full power of her icy gaze upon Will and took a menacing step toward him. "You administered a dangerous potion to my son against his will?"

Will was becoming more and more anxious by the second. He glanced around, looking for a lifeline, and found none. "Mrs. Malfoy," he began calmly, attempting to soothe her, "we were very—"

"_Lady_ Malfoy," she corrected through gritted teeth. Nobody ever actually called her that, but there were times when she whipped out her technical title like a wand to the throat.

"Yes, of course. My apologies, Lady Malfoy. It's just that—"

"I care not for your excuses, William." He winced and looked to the ground. "I care about my son, and you won't meet many healthy and happy individuals who make a habit of putting him in harm's way. Do you know why that is?"

"N-no. That is, I could venture—"

"One of them was the Dark Lord, for example. Do you remember what happened to the Dark Lord?" Her eyes flashed, and Will abandoned any attempt to gain the upper hand.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Er, Lady Malfoy."

She nodded once, seemingly satisfied with the fear she'd wrought in Will's heart. "You are an extremely fortunate young man," she continued, in a softer but no less dangerous tone. "My son is well, and our family has benefited from your deeply misguided actions. However, I am ever so certain that no such incident will occur again."

"No, of course not," he mumbled to his shoes. "Never again. Absolutely not."

"Good," she said. "Now, I'm feeling rather thirsty. Perhaps you would fetch me some champagne." She flicked her hand dismissively in the direction of the refreshments area, and Will hurried off as she'd indicated. Once he was gone, she smiled almost impishly at Draco. "Your new friends have a few things to learn," she commented.

"It's a good thing you're here," he said. He rather fancied the idea of leaving Will alone with his mother to twist in the wind, so he reckoned now was a good time to slip away. "I'm going to go find Pansy."

Her eyes lit up. "Make sure to take a look at her new broach when you do," she said. "When I saw her dress this afternoon, I was reminded of an old thing I had tucked away. It looks lovely on her."

"I will, mother." He kissed her cheek quickly and made his escape.

* * *

When he found Pansy, she was standing alone near the refreshments area with a flute of champagne, staring at the food that he knew she had no intention of actually eating. He saw his mother's broach shining near her shoulder, and it looked about the same as it always had, in Draco's opinion.

"My mother said she gave you another present," he said.

She smiled at him and touched the sapphire-studded scorpion with her free hand. "Pretty, isn't it? I'm surprised she has any jewellery left of her own." Nine times out of ten at a fancy-dress event, Narcissa was inspired to pass on another family heirloom to her pretend daughter.

"I'm not," he said. "She's got enough to fill an entire walk-in closet." Narcissa giving old designer jewellery to Pansy was about the equivalent of a regular mum offering fresh-baked biscuits to her son's friends. In fact, she'd even given a few of her husband's less-favoured tie clips and cufflinks to Blaise over the years. Lucius had so many of his own that he'd never once noticed their absence.

"These hors d'ouvres are... unusual," she commented.

"Will's choice," he said. "My mother put together a menu for him, but he said it wouldn't be a good match for the crowd. They're pretty good, though. Did you try the spinach dip?"

"No," she said immediately, wrinkling her nose. "Everyone's just been dipping their crisps right into the bowl with their hands. Who does that? You're meant to spoon a bit onto your plate. Perhaps you should put out a new bowl with instructions."

"I doubt it would help," he said. "So, have you... talked to anyone?"

"Of course, I have." He could tell from her defensive tone that she knew exactly what he meant, but she changed the subject defiantly. "It was nice to catch up with Daphne and Astoria. She's engaged, did you know?"

"No."

"Some Italian bloke, sounds like a smart match. They're going to live on his family's land in Tuscany."

"That's nice." He was relieved to hear it, actually. Astoria had always hated the climate in England; she'd probably be happier out there. He'd probably receive an obligatory invitation to the wedding, but he knew better than to actually go. His mother would attend, of course, to reaffirm that the Malfoy family bore her no ill will. "Have you talked to anyone else? Like, someone you haven't known half your life?"

She drew up her shoulders and sucked in her cheeks. "I haven't had an opportunity, no."

Clearly, Draco would have to drag her kicking and screaming into a conversation with someone new. "Well, here it is. I'd like you to meet my boss."

Maggie was having a moment with her husband, but they'd had more than thirty years worth of moments, and Draco needed to interrupt her for Pansy's sake. Maggie was the safest person around—she'd been his own first friend in the Real World and was probably the only person here with enough compassion to handle Pansy Parkinson on the defensive. He touched Pansy's elbow with two fingers and beckoned for her to follow him across the lawn, past the rose bushes and the lone white peacock hiding behind them. When Maggie saw them coming, she whispered something in her husband's ear and stepped forward to greet them alone.

"Isn't this perfect?" she asked Draco. "It's all come together so nicely. Your mother seems quite pleased as well."

"She loves having people over," he said. Especially when "people" included Simone Zabini and numerous reporters. "Everyone seems to be having a good time." The uneasy woman fidgeting silently by his side was not, but it wasn't too late. "I'd like you to meet my best friend, Pansy Parkinson. I've known her practically since birth."

"It's a pleasure, Pansy," she said, stretching out her hand. Pansy shook it in a business-like manner. "What was Draco like as a child?"

She smirked mischievously at Draco before responding. "Like he is now, only cute."

Draco could've said the same for little Pansy, except with a different nose. "I think I'm cuter now," he said instead.

Pansy shrugged haughtily. "You dressed better when your mother did it for you." _Retract your claws_, he begged her silently, but Maggie only laughed.

"I think we'd all dress better if Narcissa Malfoy were our personal stylist," she commented. "What did you think of the show?"

"It was good," she said. "I'd never heard Muggle music before, but I must admit I was entertained."

Before Maggie could reply, her daughter appeared at her side. "Draco, is this Pansy?" she asked.

"You've heard of me?"

"Draco talks about you all the time," she said. "You and Blaise. It's nice to finally meet you."

Pansy glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and he could have sworn he caught a hint of a smile. "I could say the same to you," she said smoothly. "And you can tell it's been good things, or you'd be out of business by now."

Draco didn't know whether to hang his head in shame or thank her for her consideration. "She's joking," he said.

"I'm not," she corrected stubbornly. "If I heard that Draco's employer was—"

"But she isn't," he interrupted. "Because this is my employer, and she treats her workers fairly." He eyed her pointedly, and Pansy took the hint.

"Draco is fortunate to have friends who care about him so much," Maggie said, with a tight smile.

"Well, I mean..." Pansy gestured vaguely with her hands, clearly at a loss for words. He knew she was confused and afraid, because people weren't treating her the way she'd expected. He knew what that felt like. "Has anyone seen Blaise?"

"Over there," Draco said, jerking his head to the right.

"Right," she said. "I haven't congratulated him yet. Please excuse me." She nodded cordially at Maggie and Bianca and hurried away. There was a brief but awkward silence after she left.

"Sorry," he muttered. "She's, er, out of her element."

"Clearly," Bianca said. She was watching Pansy walk away with an incredulous look, like she couldn't believe someone like that could actually exist, and Draco could relate. He'd said it before and he'd say it again: Pansy Parkinson was an acquired taste.

"I'm sure this is unusual for her," Maggie added, far more sympathetically. "I'll try talking to her later."

"Thanks," he said.

Bianca smiled at someone behind him, and Draco turned to see Hermione. She was dressed normally again, too, which was a shame: her stage get-up had been quite attractive. Maggie said something about leaving the two of them alone, and Draco waved in her general direction without bothering to turn around.

"I didn't see you sing," he confessed. He wanted to get it over with right away, so he could stop worrying. He watched her reaction carefully, but it turned out to be a dramatic sigh of relief. Draco was surprised at first, but then he was relieved, too.

"Oh, thank goodness," she said. "I must've looked ridiculous."

"Why? Did I?"

She pressed her lips together, and a light flush rose on her cheeks. "No," she said quietly. "You didn't."

"That's good," he said. "Let's never do anything like this again."

She grinned and stepped closer. "Too stressful?"

"Too... everything." There simply weren't enough words. His life had become too much of everything. "I don't know what to do with it all."

She must have been smart enough to know he wasn't talking about Muggle music concerts anymore. She took his hand in her small one and began to walk away from the crowd without looking back. "It'll get easier," she said.

"If you say so." He didn't believe her, but he knew better than to argue. He pulled her down the garden path to the right, so they'd wind up near the gazebo. Behind them, the crowd grew smaller and smaller, and the warm gathering darkness made it harder to find his fears. They would come back to eat at him as sure as the rising sun, but more gentle evenings would follow, walking on soft, forgiving earth with someone to hold his hand.

* * *

_._

* * *

_the end._

* * *

_* "Hey Jude," by the Beatles  
_

* * *

_.  
_

* * *

**Epilogue**

It is difficult to talk about love in the long term. Circumstances change, people break up, and sometimes they can't even remember why they ever thought they loved each other at all. Money works the opposite way: it's there or it isn't, and you always know how much there is and where it went. As such, it is easier to speak now in terms of money.

Almost 100,000 galleons were raised at the concert, which was more than enough to keep the Basement in business. Draco and Narcissa Malfoy sold the house in Monaco for a lump sum of 113,000 galleons. Draco spent 50,000 of that on a flat in the city with a view. He accumulated a total of nineteen cheques from the Raven, none of which ever left his drawer, but the first royalty cheque he received from the Phoenix Press publishing company was more than all of them combined.

Hermione Granger eventually chose to sell her flat for 20,000 galleons, having entered into a lucrative new partnership. In the long run, it turned out to be a financially sound decision.

Oh, and the vile half-blooded baby sends her best.


End file.
